LIONEL  AT  WILL 


or  CHIP 


The   House  by  the  River 


By 

A.  P.  Herbert 


New  York 

Alfred  •  A  •  Knopf 

1921 


BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


PRINTED   IN    TH»    UNITED   STATES    OT   AMERICA 


Stack 
Annex 


The  House  by  the  River 


21301B5 


THE    Whittakers   were   At    Home    every 
Wednesday.     No  one  else  in  Hammerton 
Chase  was  officially  At  Home  at  any  time. 
So  every  one  went  to  the  Whittakers'  on  Wednes- 
days. 

There  are  still  a  few  intimate  corners  in  Lon- 
don where  people,  other  than  the  poor,  are  posi- 
tively acquainted  with  their  neighbours.  And 
Hammerton  Chase  is  one  of  these.  In  heartless 
Kensington  we  know  no  more  of  our  neighbour 
than  we  may  gather  from  furtive  references  to  the 
Red  Book  and  Who's  Who,  or  stealthy  reconnais- 
sances from  behind  the  dining-room  curtains  as 
he  goes  forth  in  the  morning  to  his  work  and  to 
his  labour.  Our  communication  with  him  is  lim- 
ited to  the  throwing  back  over  the  garden-wall  of 
his  children's  balls,  aeroplanes,  and  spears,  or  — 
in  the  lowest  parts  of  Kensington  —  to  testy  ham- 
merings with  the  fire-irons  towards  the  close  of  his 
musical  evenings.  Overt,  deliberate,  avoidable, 
social  intercourse  with  any  person  living  in  the 
same  street  or  the  same  block  of  mansions  is  a 
thing  unknown.  What  true  Londoner  remembers 
going  to  an  At  Home,  a  dance,  a  musical  evening, 

[5] 


The  House  by  the  River 

or  other  entertainment  in  his  own  street?  Who 
is  there  who  regards  with  friendship  the  occupant 
of  the  opposite  flat? 

Hammerton  Chase  could  scarcely  be  regarded 
as  a  street.  A  short  half-mile  of  old  and  digni- 
fied houses,  clustered  irregularly  in  all  shapes  and 
sizes  along  the  sunny  side  of  the  Thames,  with 
large  trees  and  little  gardens  fringing  the  bank 
across  the  road,  and,  lying  opposite,  the  Island, 
a  long  triangle  of  young  willows,  the  haunt  of  wild 
duck  and  heron  and  swan  —  it  had  a  unique,  in- 
comparable character  of  its  own.  It  was  like 
neither  street,  nor  road,  nor  avenue,  nor  garden, 
nor  any  other  urban  unit  of  place  in  London,  or 
indeed,  it  was  locally  supposed,  in  the  world.  It 
had  something,  perhaps,  of  an  old  village  and 
something  of  a  Cathedral  Close,  something  of 
Venice  and  something  of  the  sea.  But  it  was  sui 
generis.  It  was  The  Chase,  W.  6.  And  the  W. 
6  was  generally  considered  to  be  superfluous. 

But,  whatever  it  was,  it  prided  itself  on  the  in- 
timate and  sociable  relations  of  its  members. 
They  were  all  on  friendly  terms  with  each  other, 
and  knew  exactly  the  circumstances  and  employ- 
ment, the  ambitions,  plans,  and  domestic  crises 
of  each  other  at  any  given  moment.  They 
"  dropped  in  "  at  each  other's  houses  for  conver- 
sation and  informal  entertainment;  they  borrowed 
wine-glasses  for  their  dinner-parties  and  tools  for 

[6] 


The  House  by  the  River 

their  gardens  and  anchors  for  their  boats.  They 
were  a  community,  a  self-sufficient  community,  iso- 
lated geographically  from  their  natural  homes  in 
Chelsea  and  Kensington,  W.,  by  the  dreary  wilder- 
ness of  West  Kensington  and  the  barbarous  ex- 
panse of  Hammersmith,  and  clinging  almost 
pathetically  together  in  their  little  oasis  of  civiliza- 
tion. 

And  yet  they  were  not  suburban.  They  were  in 
physical  fact  on  the  actual  borders  of  London 
County;  they  were  six  miles  from  Charing  Cross. 
But  Ealing  and  the  suburbs  are  farther  still.  And 
the  soul  of  Ealing  was  many  leagues  removed 
from  the  soul  of  The  Chase,  which,  like  The 
Chase,  was  something  not  elsewhere  to  -be  dis- 
covered. 

So  that  on  Wednesdays  the  Whittakers  were  At 
Home  in  the  evening,  and  every  one  went.  An- 
drew Whittaker  was  an  artist  and  art-critic; 
though  for  various  reasons  he  devoted  more  time 
to  criticism  than  to  execution.  Mrs.  Whittaker 
wrote  novels  in  the  intervals  of  engaging  a  new 
servant  or  dismissing  an  old  one,  and  grappling  un- 
daunted with  the  domestic  crisis  which  either  op- 
eration produced.  They  were  both  exceedingly 
pleasant,  cultivated,  and  feckless  people,  and  they 
well  represented  the  soul  of  The  Chase.  Indeed, 
no  one  else  was  so  well  fitted  to  collect  the  bodies 
of  The  Chase  together  on  Wednesdays. 

[7] 


The  House  by  the  River 

On  this  Wednesday  there  were  fewer  bodies 
than  usual  in  the  grey  drawing-room.  It  was  a 
moist  and  thunderous  evening,  very  heavy  and 
still,  and  many  of  The  Chase  were  gasping  quietly 
in  their  own  little  gardens,  reluctant  to  enter  a 
house  of  any  kind.  And  there  were  one  or  two 
households  vaguely  "  away  in  the  country."  It 
was  rather  the  habit  of  true  members  of  The 
Chase  to  "  go  away  "  in  May,  or  in  June,  or  iii 
any  month  but  August,  not  simply  because  it  was 
a  wise  and  sensible  thing  to  do,  August  being  an 
overrated  and  tumultuous  month  in  the  country, 
nor  only  because  if  you  lived  in  the  airy  Chase  the 
common  craving  of  Londoners  to  escape  from 
London  in  August  did  not  affect  you,  but  chiefly 
because  if  you  lived  in  The  Chase  that  was  the 
kind  of  thing  you  did. 

Mrs.  Whittaker  was  a  little  distressed  by  the 
meagre  attendance.  Six  or  seven  ladies  of  The 
Chase,  Mr.  Dimple,  the  barrister,  Mr.  Mard,  the 
architect,  and  his  wife  were  there;  but  these  were 
all  elderly  and  unexciting,  and  without  some  pow- 
erful stimulus  from  the  outer  world  it  was  impos- 
sible to  prevent  them  from  discussing  food  and 
domestic  servants.  Domestic  worries  dominated 
their  lives.  Life  in  The  Chase  was  one  long  do- 
mestic worry.  And  the  great  problem  of  Mrs. 
Whittaker's  At  Homes  was  to  prevent  people 
from  talking  about  servants,  food,  and  domestic 
[8] 


The  House  by  the  River 

worries.  Her  method  was  to  invite  large  num- 
bers of  artistic,  literary,  and  otherwise  interesting 
people  from  distant  London,  who  were  appar- 
ently immune  from  domestic  worries  or  were  at 
any  rate  capable  of  excluding  them  from  their  con- 
versation. The  artistic  element  was  thinly  repre- 
sented this  evening  by  a  psychologist  from  Ox- 
ford and  a  dramatic  critic.  But,  nobly  though 
they  strove  to  discuss  the  drama  and  the  mind, 
they  were  hopelessly  swamped  by  a  loud  discus- 
sion on  domestic  servants  and  food  among  the 
ladies  of  The  Chase,  vigorously  led  by  Mrs.  Vin- 
cent and  Mrs.  Church.  Mrs.  Ralph  Vincent  was 
a  carroty-haired  lady  of  extraordinary  aggressive- 
ness and  defiant  juvenility  in  the  face  of  her  forty- 
five  summers  and  seven  children.  Mrs.  Church 
was  the  widow-daughter  of  old  Mrs.  Ambrose, 
who  was  ninety  and  extremely  deaf.  Mrs. 
Church  herself  had  an  unfortunate  stutter.  Yet 
these  two  ladies,  living  together  at  Island  View, 
practically  constituted  the  Intelligence  Staff  of  The 
Chase.  They  knew  everything.  They  never 
went  out,  except  on  Wednesdays  to  the  Whit- 
takers',  when  the  indomitable  Mrs.  Ambrose 
strode  unaided  under  the  splendid  elms  to  Wil- 
low House  and  laboured  by  stages  up  the  narrow 
stairs.  But  their  agents  came  to  them  daily  for 
teas  and  "  little  talks,"  and  handed  over,  willingly 
or  no,  the  secrets  of  The  Chase.  Nor  could  it  be 

[9] 


The  House  by  the  River 

said  that  either  of  them  knew  more  or  less  than 
the  other.  Old  Mrs.  Ambrose'  prided  herself  on 
her  lip-reading,  and  no  doubt  Mrs.  Church's  un- 
fortunate impediment  made  it  easier  for  the  old 
lady  to  practise  this  art  to  advantage.  Some  said, 
indeed,  that  Mrs.  Church's  stutter  had  been  as- 
sumed in  filial  piety  for  this  very  purpose. 

Mrs.  Ambrose  was  busily  endeavouring  to  read 
the  lips  of  the  psychologist  and  the  dramatic  critic, 
whom  she  suspected  of  being  engaged  in  a  discus- 
sion of  unsusual  interest,  if  not  actual  indelicacy. 
People  who  knew  of  her  supposed  gift  felt  some- 
times very  uncomfortable  about  conversation  in 
her  presence,  especially  if  they  were  speaking  to 
some  reckless  person  who  did  not  know  of  it. 

The  voice  of  the  psychologist  was  heard  pro- 
testing to  his  host  the  sincerity  and  thoroughness 
of  the  Oxford  method.  Whittaker  stood  pa- 
tiently in  front  of  him  with  a  trayful  of  home- 
made cocktails.  "  We  make  them  concentrate 
.  .  .  a  priori  .  .  .  processes  of  thought  .  .  . 
lectures  .  .  .  philosophy  .  .  .  system  .  .  ." 

Then  domesticity  broke  out  again,  and  Mrs. 
Whittaker,  listening  with  one  ear  to  each  party, 
raged  furiously  within.  "  Mary  takes  the  chil- 
dren in  the  morning  .  .  .  the  gas-oven  .  .  . 
margarine  .  .  .  the  geyser  .  .  .  the  front  door- 
step .  .  .  pull  out  the  damper  .  .  .  simply 
walked  out  of  the  house  .  .  .  margarine  .  .  . 

[10] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Mrs.  Walker's  Bureau  .  .  .  butter  .  .  .  very 
good  references  .  .  .  margarine  .  .  .  the  prin- 
ciples of  reasoning  .  .  .  what  about  Susan?  .  .  . 
margarine  ...  a  month's  wages  .  .  .  margar- 
ine .  .  .  thought-circles  .  .  .  washing-up  ...  a 
lady-help  .  .  .  margarine  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Whittaker  despaired.  Were  none  of  her 
artistic  circle  coming?  She  went  over  to  her  hus- 
band and  whispered  fiercely,  "  Are  the  Byrnes 
coming?  Go  out  and  ring  them  up.  Tell  them 
they  simply  must." 

Whittaker  desposited  his  tray  in  the  arms  of  the 
psychologist  and  went  out;  the  psychologist  as- 
sumed the  air  of  one  who  is  equal  to  any  emer- 
gency, and  sat  solemnly  embracing  the  tray. 

When  Whittaker  came  back  there  was  a  wide 
grin  on  his  pleasant  face.  He  announced: 

"  The  Byrnes  are  coming  in  a  minute  —  and 
he's  bringing  the  Choir." 

"  Oh,  good,"  said  Mrs.  Whittaker,  and  echoing 
approvals  came  from  several  of  the  company. 

The  psychologist  said,  "  Is  that  Stephen 
Byrne?  "  in  an  awed  voice,  and  tried  not  to  look 
as  impressed  and  gratified  as  he  felt  when  Whit- 
taker assured  him  that  it  was.  The  elderly  ladies 
looked  more  cheerful,  and  abandoned  the  barren 
topic  of  domestic  worries  to  discuss  poetry  and 
Mr.  Byrne.  Mrs.  Ambrose  said,  "  I  like  Mr. 
Byrne  " ;  Mrs.  Church  said,  "  A  nice  man,  Mr. 


The  House  by 'the  River 

Byrne  ";  Mrs.  Vincent  said,  "  Such  a  nice  couple, 
the  Byrnes." 

There  were  many  accomplished  people  living  in 
The  Chase,  but  Stephen  Byrne  was  the  lion  of 
them  all;  there  were  many  delightful  people  living 
in  The  Chase,  but  Stephen  Byrne  was  the  darling 
of  them  all.  He  was  the  gem,  the  treasure  of 
The  Chase.  Indeed,  he  was  the  treasure  of  Eng- 
land. He  was  a  real  poet.  Men  had  heard  of 
him  before  the  war;  but  it  was  in  the  years  of 
war  that  he  had  come  to  greatness.  He  was  one 
of  a  few  men  who  had  been  able  in  a  few  fine 
poems  to  set  free  for  the  nation  a  little  of  the  im- 
prisoned grandeur,  the  mute  emotion  of  that  time. 
But  none  of  all  those  young  men,  who  found  their 
voices  suddenly  in  the  war  and  spoke  with  aston- 
ishment the  splendid  feelings  of  the  people,  had 
so  touched  the  imagination,  had  so  nearly  ex- 
pressed the  tenderness  of  England,  as  Stephen 
Byrne.  At  twenty-seven  he  was  a  great  man  — 
a  national  idol. 

No  wonder,  therefore,  that  The  Chase  de- 
lighted in  him.  But  there  was  more.  He  was 
personally  delightful.  So  many  successful  men 
are  unusually  ugly,  or  unusually  bad-tempered,  or 
soured,  or  boorish,  or  intolerably  rude;  and  the 
people  of  The  Chase,  being  essentially  a  critical 
people  and  far  too  noble  to  be  capable  of  intel- 
lectual snobbery,  would  not  have  given  their  hearts 

[12] 


The  House  by  the  River 

to  a  successful  poet  if  he  had  been  ugly  or  boorish 
or  intolerably  rude.  Stephen  Byrne  was  none  of 
these  things  —  but  handsome  and  affable  and 
beautifully  mannered.  And  so  they  loved  him. 

While  they  were  waiting  for  him  it  grew  dark 
and  a  little  cooler,  and  more  of  The  Chase  came 
in.  Mr.  Dunk,  the  American,  came  in,  and  Pet- 
way,  of  the  Needlework  Guild,  and  Morrison,  the 
publisher.  After  them  came  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Stimpson.  Stimpson  was  a  Civil  Servant,  but  his 
life-work  was  cabinet-making.  Mrs.  Stimpson 
was  an  execrable  housekeeper  and  mother,  but 
knitted  with  extraordinary  finish.  Knitting  was 
her  craft;  cabinet-making  was  her  husband's  craft. 
Everybody  had  a  craft  of  some  kind  in  The  Chase. 
They  all  made  things  or  did  things,  which  nobody 
made  or  did  in  Kensington. 

Sometimes  this  making  or  doing  was  their  pro- 
fession; sometimes  it  was  a  parergon  carried  on 
deliciously  in  leisure  hours.  In  either  case  it  was 
the  most  important  part  of  their  lives.  Mr.  Dunk 
kept  rabbits;  Mr.  Farraday  kept  boats,  and  sailed 
interminably  in  his  cutter  or  rowed  about  in  an 
almost  invisible  dinghy.  However  innocent  and 
respectable  they  looked,  each  of  them,  one  felt, 
was  capable  of  secret  pottery,  or  privately  ad- 
dicted to  modelling  or  engraving.  There  was 
nothing  The  Chase  could  not  do. 

When  these  people  came  in  the  At  Home  bright- 

[13] 


The  House  by  the  River 

ened  appreciably;  there  was  a  loud  noise  of  really 
intelligent  conversation,  and  Mrs.  Whittaker  was 
satisfied.  Whittaker  laboured  assiduously  at  his 
home-made  cocktails,  and  was  suitably  rewarded 
by  their  rapid  consumption.  Whittaker's  cock- 
tails had  the  advantages  and  the  defects  of  an  im- 
promptu composition,  which  is  precisely  what  they 
were.  He  was  bound  by  no  cast-iron  rules  as  to 
ingredients  in  manufacture.  But  they  were  al- 
ways powerful  and  generally  popular;  and  most  of 
the  ladies  attempted  them  if  only  because  they 
were  such  a  glorious  gamble.  Only  Mrs.  Am- 
brose resolutely  declined.  And  as  they  drank 
them  they  were  all  pleasurably  excited  by  the  im- 
minent advent  of  Stephen  Byrne. 

The  door  opened  violently,  striking  the  psychol- 
ogist in  the  middle  of  the  back,  and  a  wave  of  peo- 
ple surged  into  the  room,  with  much  chattering 
and  loud  laughter.  Towering  in  the  centre  of  the 
mob  was  a  huge  clergyman,  with  large,  round  spec- 
tacles and  a  brick-red  face,  who  reminded  one  in- 
stantly of  Og,  Gog,  and  Magog,  however  vague 
one's  previous  impressions  of  those  personages 
had  been.  He  had  a  voice  like  a  Tube  train,  rum- 
bling far  off  in  a  tunnel,  and  his  laugh  was  like 
the  bursting  of  shells.  He  was  six  foot  eight,  and 
magnificently  proportioned.  With  him  was  a  man 
about  twenty-seven,  a  Civil  Servant  and  resident 
of  The  Chase,  by  name  John  Egerton.  In  front 
[14] 


The  House  by  the  River 

of  these  two,  hopelessly  dwarfed  by  the  Rev. 
Peter,  were  two  young  ladies  —  and  Stephen 
Byrne,  a  tall  figure  in  a  black  velvet  smoking- 
jacket. 

It  said  much  for  the  personality,  and  indeed  the 
person,  of  the  young  poet  that  in  the  arresting 
presence  of  the  Rev.  Peter  most  of  the  company 
looked  immediately  at  Stephen  Byrne.  Many  of 
them,  indeed,  thought  it  more  seemly  for  some 
reason  to  conceal  their  interest,  and  went  on  talk- 
ing or  listening  to  their  neighbours ;  they  swivelled 
their  eyes  painfully  towards  the  door  without  mov- 
ing their  heads,  and  suddenly  said  "  Quite  "  or 
"  Really  "  with  a  vain  affectation  of  intelligence 
and  usually  in  an  inappropriate  context. 

These  were  mostly  men,  who  could  not  be  ex- 
pected openly  to  admit  that  there  was  present  a 
more  important  male  than  themselves.  But  most 
of  the  women,  and  especially  the  older  ones,  re- 
garded with  evident  admiration  the  black-haired, 
bonny  celebrity  of  Hammerton  Chase.  It  was 
very  black,  that  hair,  unbelievably  black,  and  of  a 
curious,  attractive  texture.  One  wanted  to  touch 
it.  And,  although  he  was  a  poet,  it  was  not  too 
long. 

Smiling  happily  under  the  light,  Stephen  Byrne 
was  very  good  to  look  at.  A  high  brow  gave  him 
a  perhaps  spurious  suggestion  of  nobility,  for  the 
rest  of  the  face  was  not  so  noble.  The  modern 


The  House  by  the  River 

habit  is  to  affix  a  label  to  every  man,  and  be  af- 
fronted if  he  forgets  or  ignores  his  label.  But  the 
most  inveterate  labeller  would  have  been  puzzled 
by  the  face  of  Stephen  Byrne.  In  repose  it  was  a 
handsome,  impressive  face,  full  of  what  is  vaguely 
described  as  "  breeding,"  the  nose  straight  and 
thin,  the  mouth  firm  and  unobtrusive.  One  felt 
confidence,  sympathy,  attraction.  But  when  he 
spoke  or  smiled,  one  thought  again.  There  was 
attraction  still,  and  for  most  people  an  immediate 
irresistible  charm,  but  less  confidence.  There  was 
a  certain  weakness  in  the  mobile  mouth,  a  certain 
fleshliness.  You  could  imagine  this  young  man 
being  noble  or  mean,  cruel  or  kind,  good-hu- 
moured or  petulant,  selfish  or  magnanimous  or 
simply  damnable.  Which  is  merely  to  say  that 
he  was  a  complicated  affair.  But  if  indeed  he  had 
a  darker  side,  it  had  never  been  revealed  to  the 
people  of  The  Chase;  and  they  loved  him. 

The  two  ladies  were  Margery  Byrne,  his  wife, 
and  Muriel  Tarrant,  a  favourite  niece  of  the 
Reverend  Peter.  They  were  both  very  fair,  both 
very  delightful  without  being  exactly  beautiful. 
Miss  Muriel  Tarrant  was  the  sole  unmarried  and 
still  marriageable  maiden  in  The  Chase.  It  was 
a  curious  thing;  the  female  population  of  The 
Chase  consisted  almost  entirely  of  married  ladies, 
young  or  old,  elderly  ladies  who  were  past  that 
sort  of  thing,  and  small  children.  Muriel  Tar- 
[16] 


The  House  by  the  River 

rant  swam  like  a  solitary  comet  in  this  galaxy  of 
fixed  or  immature  stars.  None  could  imagine  why 
she  remained  single  for  a  moment,  so  young  and 
fresh  and  admirable  she  was.  People  indeed  said 
that  John  Egerton  .  .  .  but  no  one  knew. 

Muriel's  young  brother,  George  Edwin,  a  tall 
youth  with  the  precise  features  of  Greek  sculp- 
ture and  the  immaculate  locks  of  a  barber's  assist- 
ant, brought  up  the  rear,  looking  a  little  dazed. 

There  was  a  third  young  lady,  disconcertingly 
tall  and  slightly  abashed,  and  an  obviously  artistic 
youth  in  a  blue  collar,  clinging  timidly  to  the  skirts 
of  the  party  —  both  strangers  to  The  Chast. 

Stephen  Byrne  introduced  them. 

"  All  these  people,"  he  explained,  with  a  com- 
prehensive gesture,  "  do  pottery  and  engraving. 
They  are  The  Chase.  Give  me  one  of  your  cock- 
tails, Whittaker.  No  —  give  me  two." 

With  two  thin  glasses  of  Whittaker's  latest  con- 
coction he  walked  over  to  old  Mrs.  Ambrose, 
watching  him  from  her  distant  corner  and  wishing 
she  was  less  old  and  less  deaf,  so  that  she  could 
command  the  attentions  of  pleasant  and  dis- 
tinguished young  men.  When  he  came  to  her  she 
glowed  with  contentment  like  the  harvest  moon 
emerging  from  a  mist,  and  to  her  own  intense 
astonishment  and  the  horror  of  her  daughter  was 
prevailed  upon  by  Stephen  to  accept  and  actually 
consume  the  cocktail  he  had  brought  her.  So  ex- 


The  House  by  the  River 

cited  was  she,  and  so  excited  was  Mrs.  Church,  her 
daughter,  that  Mrs.  Church's  stutter  became  al- 
together unconquerable,  and  the  old  lady's  lip- 
reading  became  more  than  ever  an  adventure  in 
guess-work.  This  meant  a  complete  breakdown 
in  their  system  of  communications,  which  made 
conversation  difficult.  But  Stephen  chattered  and 
sparkled  undeterred,  and  the  old  ladies  chuckled 
and  crooned  with  satisfaction.  Mrs.  Ambrose 
thought  he  was  talking  about  domestic  servants, 
because  she  had  lip-read  the  word  "  cook."  In 
fact,  he  was  talking  nonsense  about  the  origin  of 
the  word  cocfc-tail,  as  Mrs.  Church  kept  trying  to 
explain.  But  she  never  got  further  than,  "  He 
d  —  d  —  didn't  say  c  —  c  —  cook,  Mother  — 
he  said  c  —  c  —  c — "  because  the  old  lady  al- 
ways interrupted  with  "  Housemaids,  ah  —  yes," 
and  wagged  her  white  head  with  profound  mean- 
ing. 

The  rumour  travelled  round  the  noisy  room  that 
Mr.  Byrne  had  made  Mrs.  Ambrose  have  a  cock- 
tail, and  they  all  said,  "  How  like  him !  the 
naughty  old  thing!  No  one  else  would  have  done 
that."  Margery  Byrne  was  trying  to  make  the 
dramatic  critic  talk  about  the  drama,  but  he  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  no  one  in  Hammer- 
ton  liked  to  talk  about  anything  but  domestic  wor- 
ries. As  he  lived  in  a  service  flat  and  did  not 
have  any,  it  was  far  from  easy  for  him,  but  he 
[18] 


The  House  by  the  River 

was  doing  his  best,  and  had  ascertained  from 
Mrs.  Byrne  that  she  had  just  engaged  a  new 
maid,  named  Emily,  who  seemed  likely  to  be  sat- 
isfactory. When  Mrs.  Byrne  heard  of  her  hus- 
band's feat,  she  looked  across  at  him  fondly,  but 
almost  reproachfully.  "  That  means  he's  had 
three  himself,"  she  said,  with  a  gay  laugh.  The 
dramatic  critic,  who  flattered  himself  that  he  had 
probed  the  depths  of  human  nature,  thought, 
'What  a  nice,  easygoing  wife!"  But  Mrs. 
Byrne  was  really  thinking,  "  I  wish  he  wouldn't 
drink  so  many  —  horrid,  strong  stuff." 

And  she  saw  that,  though  her  husband  was  be- 
ing so  pleasant  and  kind  to  the  two  old  ladies, 
he  was  looking  most  of  the  time  at  Muriel  Tar- 
rant,  the  pretty  girl  in  the  corner  beyond  him,  who 
was  talking  to  John  Egerton,  and  blushing  prettily 
about  something. 

Margery  Byrne  said  to  herself,  "  I  am  not  jeal- 
ous," and  looked  away. 

An  enormous  chatter  filled  the  room.  The  psy- 
chologist sat  silent,  noticing  things.  Mr.  Whit- 
taker  fussed  about  with  coffee  and  thin  glasses. 
Odd  corners  of  tables  and  mantelpieces  and  book- 
shelves became  crowded  with  discarded  coffee- 
cups  and  dissipated  glasses,  perilously  poised. 
Mrs.  Whittaker,  talking  busily  to  the  Reverend 
Peter,  listened  anxiously,  with  both  ears  at  the 
public  pulse,  as  it  were,  and  could  detect  no  single 

[19] 


The  House  by  the  River 

murmur  of  domestic  worries.  Every  one,  it 
seemed,  was  being  interesting  and  intelligent. 

Then  the  carroty-haired  Mrs.  Vincent  bustled 
up  to  her.  "  Won't  you  make  them  sing  to  us, 
Mrs.  Whittaker?  —  Mr.  Byrne's  Choir,  I  mean. 
I've  never  heard  them,  you  know." 

The  Reverend  Peter  roared  across  the  room, 
"A  song,  Stephen  —  a  song!  Forward,  the 
Choir!" 

The  Hammerton  Choir  was  the  unduly  digni- 
fied title  of  the  faintly  flippant,  faintly  musical 
company  of  pleasant  people  which  the  Byrnes 
gathered  periodically  at  their  house  along  The 
Chase.  They  sang,  indeed,  informally  and 
wholly  impromptu,  a  wide  range  of  quartettes 
and  choruses  and  glees.  But  volume  of  sound 
rather  than  delicacy  of  execution  was  their  strong 
point,  and  the  prevailing  tone  was  frivolous.  In- 
deed, it  was  scarcely  in  keeping  with  the  sonorous 
title  they  had  assumed;  and  Mrs.  Vincent  and 
others  of  Mrs.  Whittaker's  guests,  who  had  heard 
of  the  Hammerton  Choir,  but  had  not  actually 
heard  it,  might  be  pardoned  if  they  had  formed 
too  flattering  an  impression  of  its  powers. 

Some  of  the  Choir  showed  a  certain  bashfulness 
at  the  proposal  that  they  should  sing  so  publicly. 
John  Egerton  at  first  definitely  refused,  partly 
perhaps  because  he  was  happily  occupied  with 
Miss  Muriel  Tarrant  in  an  almost  impregnable 

[20] 


The  House  by  the  River 

corner.  She,  however,  not  wishing  the  company 
to  suppose  that  she  had  any  such  thought,  urged 
him  into  the  arena;  and  Stephen  Byrne  prevailed 
upon  the  rest  of  his  following.  He  himself 
showed  no  signs  of  bashfulness. 

Miss  Tarrant  was  the  Choir's  principal  treble, 
and  Stephen,  bowing  gallantly,  escorted  her  with 
Miss  Tiffany  to  the  piano,  a  decayed  and  tinny  in- 
strument, with  many  photographs  of  children 
obliquely  regarding  each  other  on  the  top. 
Stephen  sat  at  the  piano,  and  the  Reverend  Peter 
stood  stooping  like  a  tired  steeple  beyond.  He 
was,  of  course,  the  bass.  The  young  man  with 
the  blue  collar  provided  with  John  Egerton  a 
throaty  and  wavering  tenor.  Egerton  tried  to 
stand  next  to  Miss  Tarrant,  but  was  thwarted 
without  intention  by  his  companion  tenor.  Miss 
Tiffany  grew  slowly  pinker  and  pinker.  A  sol- 
emn hush  descended.  The  company  held  their 
breath. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  Great  War  Mr.  As- 
quith  made  a  speech.  In  it  he  formulated  the 
principles  for  which  this  nation  was  fighting.  The 
formula  was  perfect  and  worthy  of  a  great  master 
of  formulas,  sonorous  and  dignified,  yet  not  ver- 
bose. It  said  everything  without  saying  a  word 
too  much.  And  Mr.  Asquith  was,  justifiably,  so 
pleased  with  it  that  for  many  years  he  lost  no 
opportunity  of  publicly  repeating  it,  or  if  he  did 

[21] 


The  House  by  the  River 

not  repeat  it,  of  reminding  people  about  it  in 
speeches  and  pronouncements  and  letters  to  the 
Press.  It  began,  "'  We  shall  not  sheathe  the 
sword,"  and  for  a  long  time  it  was  blazoned  on 
every  hoarding.  Few  men  can  have  had  so  strik- 
ing a  literary  success  with  four  sentences. 

But  over  and  above  its  conciseness  and  majesty 
and  lucidity  the  formula  had  other  qualities  which 
may  or  may  not  have  been  consciously  imparted 
to  it  by  Mr.  Asquith.  Its  component  sentences 
had  the  literary  form  of  Hebraic  poetry,  the 
structure  and  rhythm  of  the  Psalms.  They  might, 
indeed,  have  come  out  of  the  Psalms. 

But  this  was  not  all.  One  would  understand 
the  Prime  Minister  of  England  modelling  some 
important  literary  composition  on  the  style  of  the 
Psalms,  which  is  a  noble  style.  And  that  being 
so,  one  could  understand  the  result  being  more  or 
less  easily  adjustable  to  some  one  or  other  of 
those  Church  of  England  chants,  which  have  done 
so  much  to  popularize  the  Psalms  of  David.  But 
the  extraordinary  thing  about  Mr.  Asquith's  for- 
mula was  that  it  fitted  exactly  the  Quadruple 
Chant,  the  unique  and  famous  Quadruple  Chant, 
designed  by  a  benignant  Church  to  make  the  long- 
est Psalm  that  David  composed  less  inexpressibly 
fatiguing  than  it  would  be  to  the  music  of  a  miser- 
able single  or  double  chant.  There  were  four 
sentences  in  Mr.  Asquith's  formula.  There  were 

[22] 


The  House  by  the  River 

four  musical  sentences  in  the  Quadruple  Chant, 
each  divided  in  twain.  And  they  fitted  each  other 
like  a  glove,  or,  rather,  like  a  well-fitting  glove. 
It  was  marvellous.  The  only  reasonable  conclu- 
sion was  that  Mr.  Asquith,  in  a  moment  of  pious 
exaltation,  had  deliberately  set  his  formula  to  the 
Quadruple  Chant. 

Alone  of  the  English-speaking  race  Stephen 
Byrne  had  discovered  these  astounding  truths. 
Having  formed  the  conclusion  that  Mr.  Asquith 
had  written  the  words  to  that  chant,  he  held  that 
one  ought  to  sing  the  words  to  that  chant.  This 
would  be  the  highest  compliment  to  the  man  and 
the  best  means  of  perpetuating  his  work.  And 
so,  with  many  others,  he  did.  But  there  is  a  sea- 
son for  all  things;  and  it  cannot  be  pretended 
that  Mrs.  Whittaker's  select  and  crowded  At 
Home  was  the  season  for  this  particular  thing. 

Stephen  struck  a  chord.  The  company  won- 
dered what  masterpiece  was  to  be  given  them  — 
perhaps  some  Schubert,  perhaps  something  from 
Gilbert  and  Sullivan. 

Then  the  great  anthem  rolled  out.  The  voices 
of  the  Hammerton  Choir  were  not  individually 
of  high  quality,  but  they  blended  well,  and  their 
volume  was  surprising.  They  sang  in  excellent 
time,  all  stopping  at  the  asterisks  absolutely  to- 
gether, all  accomplishing  with  perfect  unanimity 
those  long  polysyllabic  passages  on  one  note 

[23] 


The  House  by  the  River 

which  make  psalm-singing  in  our  churches  so 
fruitful  a  source  of  precipitancy  and  schism. 

"  We  shall  not  sheathe  the  sword  "  (pause  for 
breath),  "  which  we  have  not/lightly/drawn,//un- 
til  Belgium  has  recovered  all*  and  MORE  than/all 
that/she  has/sacrificed. 

"  Until  France  is  adequate/ly  sec/ured//against 
the/menace/of  ag/gression." 

(The  accentuation  of  ate  in  "  adequately  "  was 
the  one  blot  on  the  pointing;  it  was  unworthy  of 
Mr.  Asquith.) 

"  Until  the  rights  of  the  smaller  nationalities 
o|f/Europe//are  placed  upon  an  unasS/aila/ble 
found/ation/." 

(That  was  a  grand  stanza;  the  Hammerton 
singers  gave  a  delicious  burlesque  of  the  country 
choir  gabbling  with  ever-growing  speed  through 
the  first  words,  and  falling  with  a  luxurious  snarl 
on  their  objective,  the  unfortunate  accented  syl- 
lable «/.) 

"  And  until  the  military  domin/ation  of/ 
Prussia//is  wholly  and/final/ly  dest/royed." 

(Prussia  was  given  with  a  splendid  crescendo 
of  hate,  worthy  of  the  best  Prussian  traditions, 
and  "  destroy-ed  "  came  with  an  effective  rallen- 
tando.)  The  Reverend  Peter  Tarrant,  rum- 
bling in  a  profound  bass  the  final  "  destroy-ed," 
was  so  life-like  an  imitation  of  a  real  clergyman 
leading  a  real  village  choir  that  those  of  the  au- 
E»4] 


The  House  by  the  River 

dience  who  had  been  slightly  shocked  by  the  whole 
performance  became  suddenly  amused,  and  those 
who  had  not  been  shocked  at  all,  which  was  a 
large  majority,  were  reduced  to  the  final  stages 
of  hysterical  approval.  The  "  turn  "  was  a  huge 
success.  A  roar  of  laughter  and  clapping  and 
questioning  followed  the  solemn  ending.  The 
Choir  were  urged  to  u  do  it  again."  The  two 
ladies,  flushed  and  almost  overcome  by  the  ap- 
plause, a  circumstance  quite  new  in  the  history  of 
the  Choir,  begged  to  be  excused;  but  Stephen  once 
more  constrained  them.  This  time,  closely  fol- 
lowing the  best  contemporary  models  on  the 
variety  stage,  he  urged  the  audience  to  assist,  and 
produced  from  some  mysterious  source  a  number 
of  copies  of  the  words,  neatly  typed  and  pointed. 
And  then,  indeed,  a  wondrous  thing  was  heard. 
For  all  that  mixed  but  mainly  respectable  com- 
pany rose  up,  and,  opening  timidly,  rendered  with 
an  ever-increasing  confidence  and  volume  that 
profane  and  ridiculous  hymn.  Stephen  Byrne 
stood  superbly  on  a  footstool  and  conducted  with 
a  poker,  his  black  eyes  flashing,  his  whole  figure 
vital  with  excitement  and  mirth.  And  all  those 
people  were  under  his  spell.  Even  the  psychol- 
ogist forbore  for  a  moment  to  analyse  the  work- 
ings either  of  his  own  or  any  man's  mind,  and 
concentrated  genuinely  on  the  correct  pointing  of 
his  words,  chuckling  insanely  at  each  half-verse. 


The  House  by  the  River 

All  of  them  chuckled  and  gurgled  as  they  sang. 

But  such  is  the  hypnotic  effect  of  any  music 
with  religious  associations,  and  so  powerful  is 
the  simple  act  of  singing  vigorously  in  unison  as  a 
generator  of  sentiment  and  solemnity  in  those 
who  sing,  that  by  the  end  of  the  third  stanza  they 
had  forgotten  that  they  were  being  funny,  that 
the  whole  thing  was  a  ridiculous  joke,  and  dis- 
covered themselves,  to  Stephen's  intense  dismay, 
chanting  with  long  faces  and  tones  of  inexpressi- 
ble fervour  the  pious  resolution  that  the  military 
domination  of  Prussia  must  be  wholly  and  finally 
"  destroy-ed."  They  finished,  almost  with  lumps 
in  their  throats,  so  moving  was  it  all,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  in  a  sheepish  hush,  half  feeling  that 
some  one  should  say,  "  Let  us  pray,"  or  give  out 
a  text  before  they  might  sit  down.  Then  some 
one  cackled  in  the  background,  and  the  spell  was 
broken  with  peals  of  insane  laughter. 

While  the  hoarse  company  were  having  their 
glasses  justifiably  refilled,  Margery  Byrne  came 
quickly  up  to  her  husband,  and  gave  him  the  look 
which  means  to  a  husband,  "  I  want  to  go  home 
now."  She  was  tired  and  she  looked  tired;  and 
she  was  going  to  have  a  baby.  Stephen  said, 
u  Right  you  are,  my  dear  —  just  a  minute."  He 
was  talking  now  to  the  Reverend  Peter  and 
Muriel  Tarrant,  who  was  prettily  flushed  and  a 
little  excited.  He  was  arguing  with  the  Reverend 
[26] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Peter  about  the  poetry  of  John  Donne.  He,  too, 
was  excited  and  pleased  and  reluctant  to  go  home. 
But  he  knew  that  Margery  ought  to  go  home. 
And  of  such  stuff  are  the  real  temptations  of  man. 

He  looked  an  apology  and  an  appeal  at  his  wife 
and  said,  "  One  minute,  my  dear.  .  .  .  Would 
you  mind?  "  knowing  well  that  she  minded.  Mrs. 
Byrne  said  that  of  course  she  did  not  mind,  and 
went  back  to  her  seat  by  the  dramatic  critic,  yawn- 
ing furtively. 

So  Stephen  stood  against  the  piano  and  de- 
fended John  Donne,  that  strange  Elizabethan  mix- 
ture of  piety  and  paganism  and  poetry  and  nasti- 
ness.  He  had  forgotten  Mr.  Asquith  now;  he 
had  forgotten  the  Choir  and  Muriel  Tarrant,  and 
he  was  absorbed  in  the  serious  pronouncement  of 
an  artistic  belief.  The  Reverend  Peter  said  that 
he  was  no  prig,  but  some  of  John  Donne  was  too 
much  for  him.  He  could  not  believe  in  the  essen- 
tial greatness  of  a  grown  man  who  could  write 
such  stuff.  Stephen  began  to  quote  a  line  or  two 
from  memory;  then  he  reached  up  for  an  old 
brown  volume  on  one  of  Whittaker's  shelves  and 
read  from  it  in  a  low  voice  that  only  the  cler- 
gyman could  hear.  "  This  is  what  I  make  of 
him,"  he  said.  And  he  began  to  talk.  He  talked 
with  the  real  eloquence  of  a  master  of  words  pro- 
foundly moved,  with  growing  earnestness  and 
vigour.  He  spoke  of  the  eternal  contradictions 

[27] 


The  House  by  the  River 

of  human  personality,  of  the  amazing  mixtures 
which  make  up  men;  how  true  was  the  saying  of 
Samuel  Butler  that  everything  a  man  does  is  in  a 
measure  a  picture  of  himself,  yet  how  true  it 
was  that  one  could  not  confidently  judge  what 
a  man  was  like  from  what  he  wrote.  He  told 
the  Reverend  Peter  that  he  was  narrow  in  his 
estimate  —  unjust.  One  must  strike  a  balance. 
Many  of  the  company  had  gathered  about  him 
now,  and  were  listening;  Stephen  saw  this  at  last, 
and  finished.  Then  the  Reverend  Peter  laid  a 
large  hand  affectionately  on  his  shoulder  and  said, 
"  You're  a  wonderful  man,  Stephen.  I  surren- 
der. I  dare  say  I've  wronged  the  fellow.  .  .  . 
I'll  read  him  again.  .  .  .  You  poets  are  cer- 
tainly an  odd  mixture."  And  that  was  the 
thought  of  all  those  who  had  heard  the  singing 
and  listened  to  the  talk. 

Stephen  turned  from  him  with  a  curious  smile 
and  saw  suddenly  the  reproachful  figure  of  his 
wife. 

He  said,  "  Come  along,  my  dear  —  I'm  so 
sorry !  Are  you  coming,  John  ?  " 

Egerton  looked  across  at  Muriel  Tarrant  and 
her  mother.  They  were  entangled  with  Mrs.  Am- 
brose and  showed  no  signs  of  escaping.  He  said, 
"No  —  I  shall  stay  a  little,  I  think." 

In  the  hot  darkness  of  The  Chase  Stephen  took 
his  wife's  arm,  and  knew  at  once  that  she  was 
[28] 


The  House  by  the  River 

cross.  They  walked  in  silence  to  The  House  by 
the  River  and  in  silence  entered  the  poky  little 
hall.  Stephen  cursed  himself;  it  was  a  stupid 
end  to  a  jolly  evening.  In  the  hall  he  kissed  her 
and  said  that  he  was  sorry,  and  she  sighed  and 
smiled,  and  kissed  him  and  went  upstairs. 

Stephen  walked  reflectively  into  the  dining- 
room  and  mixed  himself  a  whisky  and  water. 
And  as  he  drank,  Emily  Gaunt  came  up  from  the 
kitchen  to  ask  if  Mrs.  Byrne  wanted  tea.  Emily 
Gaunt  was  the  new  maid.  Stephen  finished  his 
whisky  and  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  she  was 
pretty  —  in  a  way. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Emily,"  he  said,  and  smiled 
at  her.  And  Emily  smiled. 


[29] 


II 

IT  was  nearly  high  tide.  Stephen  Byrne  stood 
at  the  end  of  his  garden  and  regarded  con- 
tentedly the  River  Thames.  The  warm 
glow  of  sunset  lingered  about  the  houses  by  Ham- 
mersmith Bridge  and  the  tall  trees  on  the  Surrey 
side.  The  houses  and  the  tall  trees  and  the 
great  old  elms  by  William  Morris'  house  stood 
rigid  on  their  heads  in  the  still  water,  and  all  that 
wide  and  comfortable  reach  between  the  Island 
and  Hammersmith  Bridge  was  beautiful  in  the 
late  sun.  There  were  a  few  small  clouds  flushed 
with  pink  in  the  southern  sky,  and  these  also  lay 
like  reefs  of  coral  here  and  there  in  the  water. 
The  little  boats  in  the  foreground,  moored  in 
ranks  in  the  tiny  roads  off  Hammerton  Chase, 
lay  already  deep  in  the  shadow  of  the  high  houses 
of  the  Terrace,  and  the  water  about  them  was 
cool  and  very  black.  The  busy  tugs  went  by, 
hurrying  up  with  the  last  of  the  flood,  long  chains 
of  barges  swishing  delightfully  behind  them. 
The  tug  Maud  went  by,  and  Margaret,  her  insep- 
erable  companion.  On  their  funnels  were  a  green 
stripe  and  a  red  stripe  and  a  yellow  stripe.  On 
their  barges  were  reposeful  bargees,  smoking  old 
pipes  in  the  stern,  and  pondering,  no  doubt,  the 

[30] 


The  House  by  the  River 

glories  of  their  life.  Margaret  this  evening  had 
a  glorious  barge,  a  great  black  vessel  with  a  light 
blue  line  along  the  gunwale  and  a  tangle  of  rig- 
ging and  coffee-coloured  sails  strewn  along  her 
deck.  As  they  fussed  away  past  the  Island  the 
long  waves  crept  smoothly  across  the  river  and 
stole  secretly  under  the  little  boats  in  the  roads, 
the  sailing-boats  and  the  rowing-boats  and  the 
motor-boats  and  the  absurd  dinghies,  and  tossed 
them  up  and  heaved  them  about  with  pleasing 
chuckles;  and  went  on  to  the  garden-wall  of  the 
houses  and  splashed  noisily  under  Stephen's  nose 
and  frothed  back  to  the  boats.  And  the  boats 
rolled  happily  with  charming  ripply  noises  till 
the  water  was  calm  and  quiet  again.  A  swan 
drifted  lazily  backwards  with  the  tide,  searching 
for  something  in  the  back  of  its  neck.  It  was 
all  very  soothing  and  beautiful,  and  Stephen  Byrne 
could  have  looked  at  the  high  tide  for  ever. 

High  tide  was  a  great  moment  at  Hammerton 
Chase.  It  had  a  powerful  influence  on  the  minds 
of  The  Chase.  There  was  a  tremendous  feeling 
of  fulfilment,  of  achievement,  about  the  river  when 
the  flood  was  still  sweeping  up,  wandering  on  to 
the  road  on  one  bank  and  almost  topping  the  tow- 
path  on  the  other,  making  Hammerton  Reach  a 
broad  and  dignified  affair.  The  time  went 
quickly  when  the  tide  was  high.  There  were  long 
hours  when  the  tide  was  low,  when  the  river 


The  House  by  the  River 

dwindled  to  a  mean  and  dejected  stream-,  creep- 
ing narrowly  along  between  gloomy  stretches  of 
mud  and  brickbats  and  broken  crockery,  where  the 
boats  lay  protesting  and  derelict  in  uncomfor- 
table attitudes.  There  was  a  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment then,  of  stagnation  and  failure.  Those  who 
lived  by  the  river  and  loved  and  studied  it  were 
keenly  susceptible  to  the  tides. 

And  this  tide  seemed  particularly  copious  and 
good.  For  one  thing,  he  had  dined  well.  He 
had  drunk  at  Brierley's  a  satisfying  quantity  of 
some  admirable  Chateau  Yquem,  followed  by 
some  quite  excellent  old  brandy.  He  was  by  no 
means  drunk;  but  he  was  conscious  of  a  glow,  a 
warm  contentment.  Life  seemed  amicable  and 
prosperous  and  assured.  After  all,  he  was  a  for- 
tunate young  fellow,  Stephen  Byrne.  The  life  of 
a  successful  poet  was  undoubtedly  a  good  life. 

And  he  was  happily  married.  His  wife  was 
pretty  and  loving  and  almost  perfect.  Very  soon 
she  was  to  have  anothe'r  baby;  and  it  would  be  a 
boy,  of  course.  The  first  was  a  dear,  delightful, 
incomparable  creature,  but  she  was  a  girl.  The 
next  would  be  a  boy. 

And  he  loved  his  home.  He  loved  Hammer- 
smith and  the  faithful  companionable  river,  the 
barges  and  the  jolly  tugs  anti  his  little  garden  and 
his  motor-boat  and  his  dinghy  and  the  sun-steeped 
window-seat  in  the  corner  of  his  study,  the  white 
[32] 


The  House  by  the  River 

conservatory  he  had  whitewashed  with  his  wife, 
and  the  exuberant  creeper  they  had  trained  to- 
gether. 

Stephen's  house  was  The  House  by  the  River, 
which  stood  with  one  other  in  an  isolated  com- 
munion between  Hammerton  Terrace  and  the  Is- 
land. The  bank  swung  out  widely  above  the  Ter- 
race, so  that  Stephen's  house  and  its  neighbour 
were  on  a  miniature  promontory,  commanding  un- 
obstructed the  ample  curve  of  the  river  to  Ham- 
mersmith Bridge,  a  mile  away.  The  houses  were 
old  and  ill-appointed  within,  with  rattling  sashes 
and  loose  doors,  but  dignified  and  beautiful  with- 
out, modest  old  brick  draped  generously  with 
green.  And  they  were  full  of  tall  windows  drink- 
ing in  the  sun  and  looking  away  to  the  south  to- 
wards the  hills  about  Putney  and  Roehampton,  or 
westwards  to  the  remote  green  of  Richmond 
Hill.  They  were  rich  with  sunshine  and  an  air 
that  was  not  London's. 

Stephen  looked  up  at  his  high  old  house  and 
was  proud  of  it.  He  was  proud  of  the  thick  ivy 
and  creeper  all  over  it  and  the  green  untidy  gar- 
den below  it,  and  the  pretty  view  of  the  dining- 
room,  where  the  light  was  on,  a  lonely  island  of 
gold  in  the  dusk,  seen  delightfully  through  matted 
ropes  of  creeper. 

There  was  a  light  in  the  bathroom,  too  — 
Emily  Gaunt,  the  housemaid,  no  doubt,  having  a 

[33] 


The  House  by  the  River 

bath.  As  he  looked  up  he  heard  the  sound  of 
water  tumbling  down  the  pipes  outside  the  house, 
and  deduced  absently  that  Emily  had  pulled  up  the 
waste-plug. 

Stephen  looked  over  his  neighbour's  wall  into 
his  neighbour's  garden.  His  neighbour  was  John 
Egerton  and  a  good  friend  of  his,  probably  the 
best  friend  he  had.  But  John  Egerton  was  not 
in  his  garden.  Stephen  was  sorry,  for  he  felt  that 
inclination  towards  human  society  which  normally 
accompanies  the  warm  afterglow  of  good  wine. 
Mrs.  Byrne  was  dining  with  her  mother,  and 
would  not  be  back  for  an  hour  or  so.  Stephen 
regretted  that  he  had  come  back  so  early.  He 
could  not  write.  He  did  not  want  to  read.  He 
felt  full,  but  not  capable  of  poetry.  He  wanted 
company.  The  glow  was  still  upon  him,  but  it 
was  growing  chilly  on  the  wall.  It  was  time  to 
go  in.  He  knocked  out  his  pipe.  The  dottle  fell 
with  a  fizzle  in  the  water. 

He  walked  in  slowly  to  the  dining-room  and 
poured  out  a  glass  of  port.  Failing  company 
there  must  be  more  glow.  The  port  was  good 
and  admirably  productive  of  glow.  Stephen 
stood  by  the  old  oak  sideboard,  luxuriously  riviv- 
ing  the  sensations  of  glow.  The  dining-room,  it 
seemed  to  him,  was  extraordinarily  beautiful;  the 
sea-picture  by  Quint  an  extraordinarily  adequate 
picture  of  the  sea;  the  port  extraordinarily  com- 
[34] 


The  House  by  the  River 

forting  and  velvety;  the  whole  of  life  extraor- 
dinarily well  arranged. 

When  he  had  finished  the  port  he  heard  a  timid 
creaking  on  the  staircase.  He  went  into  the  tiny 
hall,  walking  with  a  self-conscious  equilibrium. 
Emily  Gaunt  was  coming  down  the  stairs  to  her 
bedroom,  fresh  from  her  bath.  Emily  Gaunt 
was  a  pleasant  person,  well-proportioned,  and,  for 
a  housemaid,  unusually  fair  to  see.  Her  eyes, 
like  her  hair,  were  a  very  flark  brown,  and  there 
was  a  certain  refinement  in  her  features.  Her 
hair  was  hanging  about  her  shoulders  and  her  face 
—  usually  pale  —  was  rosy  from  her  bath.  In 
the  absence  of  a  dressing-gown  or  kimono,  she 
wore  an  old  coat  of  Cook's  over  her  night-gown. 
Cook  was  skinny  and  Emily  was  plump,  so  that 
Cook's  coat  was  far  from  meeting  where  it  ought 
to  have  met.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  Emily's 
neck  and  Emily's  night-gown  to  be  seen. 

Stephen,  so  far,  had  taken  little  notice  of  Emily, 
except  that  one  evening  he  had  smiled  at  her  for 
some  reason  and  she  had  smiled  at  him;  but  at 
this  moment,  in  the  special  circumstances  of  this 
lovely  evening,  she  seemed  in  his  eyes  surprisingly 
desirable.  In  the  half-light  from  the  dining- 
room  it  was  easy  to  forget  that  she  was  a  servant. 
She  was  merely  a  warm  young  female  creature, 
plump  and  comely,  and  scantily  clad. 

And  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  house. 

[35] 


The  House  by  the  River 

"  Good  evening,  Emily,"  said  Stephen,  looking 
up  the  stairs. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Byrne,"  said  Emily,  halt- 
ing on  the  stairs.  She  was  a  little  surprised  to 
see  him.  Cook  was  having  her  "  evening  out " 
and  Emily  had  thought  herself  alone  in  the  house. 

Now,  Emily  Gaunt  was  a  well-behaved  young 
woman.  She  was  accustomed  to  being  looked  at 
by  her  male  employers,  and  she  was  accustomed 
to  keeping  them  at  a  proper  distance.  For  so 
she  had  been  brought  up.  But  when  she  was  not 
looked  at  she  was  usually  sensible  of  a  certain  dis- 
appointment. Stephen  Byrne  had  not  looked  at 
her  enough,  and  she  was  undeniably  disappointed. 
She  liked  the  look  of  him;  she  liked  his  voice  when 
he  said,  "  Where  are  my  boots,  please,  Emily?" 
And  she  did  not  get  on  well  with  Mrs.  Byrne. 
Moreover,  she  had  had  a  warm  bath  and  was  con- 
scious also  of  a  kind  of  glow. 

So  that  when  she  had  said,  "  Good  evening, 
Mr.  Byrne,"  she  continued  at  once  her  demure 
and  unaffected  descent.  Cook  would  have  turned 
and  fled  up  the  stairs,  panting  with  modesty.  So 
would  many  another  domestic  young  person. 

But  Emily  descended.  If  she  had  waited,  or 
turned  back  up  the  stairs,  or  faltered,  "  Oh,  sir" 
and  scurried  like  a  young  hind  away  from  him, 
there  is  no  doubt  that  Stephen  would  have  made 
himself  scarce  —  would  have  left  the  coast  clear. 
[36] 


The  House  by  the  River 

But  she  descended.  When  she  came  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  stairs  where  Stephen  was  standing, 
there  was  hardly  space  for  her  to  pass.  Stephen 
made  no  move.  He  said  fatuously,  "  Had  a  nice 
bath,  Emily?  "  and  he  put  one  arm  around  her  as 
she  passed,  lightly,  almost  timidly,  just  touching 
the  back  of  Cook's  coat. 

Emily  said,  "  Yes,  thank  you,  sir,"  and  looked 
at  him.  Only  a  glance,  quick  and  fugitive  as  an 
electric  spark  —  but  what  a  glance !  Yet  she 
made  no  attempt  to  stop;  she  did  not  giggle  or 
stammer  or  protest;  she  passed  on.  In  another 
moment  she  would  have  gone. 

But  Stephen  had  touched  her.  He  had  re- 
ceived and  registered  that  naughty  and  electrical 
glance.  He  was  inflamed. 

He  did  a  thing  the  like  of  which  he  had  never 
done  before.  He  closed  his  right  arm  about  the 
girl  and  firmly  embraced  her.  And  he  kissed  her 
very  suddenly  and  hotly. 

Emily  screamed. 

Stephen  pulled  her  closer  and  kissed  her  again. 
And  again  Emily  screamed.  It  was  all  very  un- 
fortunate. For  it  may  be  that  if  he  had  been  less 
precipitate  he  could  have  been  equally  amorous 
without  encountering  anything  more  than  a  purely 
formal  opposition.  Emily  Gaunt  was  prepared 
to  be  kissed,  but  not  suddenly,  not  violently.  It 
should  have  been  properly  led  up  to  —  a  little  talk, 

[37] 


The  House  by  the  River 

a  compliment  or  two,  some  blushes,  and  a  deli- 
cate embrace.  That  was  the  proper  routine  in 
Emily's  set,  or  in  anybody  else's  set  for  that  mat- 
ter. But  this  sudden,  desperate,  hot-breathed 
entanglement  was  quite  another  thing.  It  was 
frightening.  And  who  can  blame  Emily  Gaunt 
for  that  high-pitched  rasping  cry? 

Stephen  blamed  her.  It  startled  him  a 
little,  that  screaming — frightened  him,  too.  It 
brought  him  back  to  reality.  He  thought  sud- 
denly of  neighbours,  of  John  Egerton,  of  old 
Mrs.  Ambrose  across  the  way.  Suppose  they 
heard.  It  became  urgent  to  stop  the  screaming. 
Playfully,  almost,  he  put  his  hands  at  Emily's 
throat.  And  even  the  touch  of  her  throat  was 
somehow  inflammatory.  It  made  him  want  to 
kiss  her  again. 

"  Shut  up,  you  little  fool,"  he  said.  "  I  shan't 
hurt  you." 

But  Emily's  nerve  had  gone.  She  opened  her 
mouth  to  scream  again.  Stephen's  hands  tight- 
ened about  the  neck  and  the  scream  was  never 
heard.  "Now,  will  you  be  quiet?"  he  said. 
"  You're  perfectly  safe,  Emily  —  I'm  sorry.  .  .  . 
I  was  a  fool  .  .  ."  and  he  released  his  grip. 

But  Emily  was  thoroughly,  hideously,  fright- 
ened now.  A  kind  of  despairing  wail,  a  thin  and 
inarticulate  "  Help !  "  came  from  her.  Stephen 
put  his  hand  over  her  mouth,  and  Emily  bit  him. 

[38] 


The  House  by  the  River 

And  then  Stephen  saw  red.  The  lurking  ani- 
mal which  is  in  every  man  was  already  strong  in 
him  that  evening,  though  Emily's  first  scream  had 
cowed  it  a  little.  Now  it  took  complete  charge. 
With  a  throaty  growl  of  exasperation  he  put  both 
hands  at  the  soft  throat  of  Emily  and  shook  her, 
jerkily  exhorting  her  as  he  did  so,  "  Will  —  you  — 
be  quiet  —  you  —  silly  —  little  fool  —  will  you 
—  be  quiet  —  you  —  fool  —  you'll  —  have  —  ev- 
erybody—  here  —  you  .  .  ." 

He  only  meant  to  shake  her  —  he  did  not  mean 
to  squeeze  with  his  hands  —  did  not  know  that 
he  was  squeezing  —  mercilessly.  He  was  be- 
tween Emily  and  the  dining-room,  and  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  hall  he  could  not  see  the  starting, 
horrible  eyes,  the  darkening  flesh  of  poor  Emily 
Gaunt.  He  only  knew  that  this  silly  screaming 
was  intolerable  and  must  be  stopped  —  stopped 
for  certain,  without  further  bother  .  .  .  before 
the  whole  street  came  round  .  .  .  before  his  wife 
came  back  .  .  .  before  .  .  .  "  Stop  it,  will  you  ? 
.  .  .  For  God's  sake,  stop  it!  "  he  cried,  almost 
plaintively,  as  his  grip  loosened  a  moment,  and  a 
strangled  gasp  burst  from  Emily.  He  was  too 
much  possessed  with  his  anxious  rage  to  notice 
how  strangled  it  was.  What  he  wanted  was  si- 
lence .  .  .  complete  silence,  that  was  it  ... 
screams  and  gasps,  they  were  all  dangerous.  .  .  . 
"Oh  ...  stop  it  ...  can't  you?  " 

[39] 


The  House  by  the  River 

The  shaking  process  had  taken  them  across 
the  tiny  hall.  They  were  by  the  hat-stand 
now.  Emily's  oscillating  head  cannoned  against 
a  hat-peg.  Her  weight  became  suddenly  notice- 
able. Emily's  hands  stopped  scrabbling  at  his 
wrists  .  .  .  her  bare  feet  stopped  kicking. 
Good,  she  was  becoming  sensible.  Thank  God ! 
Cautiously,  with  a  vast  relief,  Stephen  took  his 
hands  away.  "  That's  better,"  he  said. 

And  then  Emily  Gaunt  fell  heavily  against  his 
shirt-front  and  slithered  past  him  to  the  floor. 
Her  forehead  hit  the  bottom  corner  of  the  hat- 
stand.  Her  body  lay  limp,  face  downwards,  and 
perfectly  still. 

In  the  dark  hall  the  sound  of  snoring  was  heard. 

He  knew  then  that  Emily  Gaunt  was  dead. 
But  it  was  absurd.  .  .  .  He  turned  on  the  light, 
groping  stupidly  in  the  dark  for  the  switch.  His 
hands  were  shaking  —  that  was  from  the  grip- 
ping, of  course.  And  they  were  sweating.  So 
was  his  face. 

Kneeling  down,  he  pulled  at  Emily's  shoulders. 
He  pulled  her  over  on  to  her  back. 

"  My  God!  "  he  whispered.  "  My  God!  .  .  . 
my  God!  .  .  ." 

A  bell  jangled  in  the  basement.  Some  one  with 
his  head  lowered  was  peering  through  the  frosted 
glass  of  the  front  door. 

[40] 


Ill 

IN  moments  of  crisis  the  human  mind  can  be- 
come extraordinarily  efficient.  Before  the 
bell  was  silent  in  the  basement,  the  mind  of 
Stephen  Byrne,  kneeling  in  a  sweat  by  the  dead 
body  of  a  housemaid,  had  covered  a  vast  field  of 
circumstance  and  performed  two  or  three  distinct 
logical  processes.  His  first  instinct  was  to  put 
out  the  light.  With  that  person  peering  on  the 
doorstep  the  light  in  the  hall  had  better  be  out. 
He  felt  exposed,  naked,  illuminated.  On  the 
other  hand,  one  could  see  practically  nothing 
through  the  frosted  glass  from  outside,  only  the 
shadow  of  any  one  actually  moving  in  the  hall. 
That  he  knew  from  experience.  Probably  the 
person  —  whoever  it  was  —  could  see  nothing 
that  was  on  the  floor,  nothing  that  was  below  the 
level  of  his  or  her  interfering  eye.  If  Stephen 
stayed  still  as  he  was,  the  person  might  never  know 
he  was  there,  might  even  go  away  in  disgust.  To 
put  the  light  out  would  be  a  gratuitous  advertise- 
ment that  somebody  was  in  the  house.  Besides, 
it  would  look  so  rude. 

Stephen  did  not  turn  out  the  light.     He  knelt 
there  on  two  knees  and  a  hand,  staring  like  a 

[41] 


The  House  by  the  River 

snake  at  the  front  door.  With  his  right  hand  he 
was  stealthily  scratching  his  left  armpit.  It  was 
itching  intolerably.  And  his  dress-collar  was 
sticking  into  his  neck.  He  was  intensely  conscious 
of  these  things. 

But  all  the  time  the  precipitate  arguments  were 
jostling  in  his  brain.  What  sort  of  person  would 
peer  through  the  glass?  Surely  a  very  familiar 
thing  to  do.  He  could  think  of  a  few  people  who 
would  do  it  —  the  Whittakers  —  but  they  were 
away;  his  wife  —  but  it  was  too  early,  and  she 
had  a  latch-key;  John  Egerton  —  but  Stephen 
thought  he  was  out.  Or  a  policeman,  of  course. 

A  policeman  who  had  heard  the  screaming,  or 
been  told  of  the  screaming,  might  do  it,  or  even  a 
neighbouring  busybody,  if  he  had  heard.  But 
they  would  have  clattered  up  to  the  door,  run 
up  or  stopped  importantly  on  the  doorstep  — 
probably  hammered  with  the  knocker.  The  per- 
son had  not  done  that.  He  had  only  rung  that 
damnable  bell. 

The  person's  head  disappeared.  He  gave  a 
loud  knock  with  the  big  brass  knocker  which 
Stephen  had  bought  in  Jerusalem.  Just  one 
knock.  Then  the  whole  world  was  silent. 
Stephen's  heart  thumped  like  a  steam-engine 
going  at  slow  speed.  He  thought,  "  It's  true 
what  they  say  in  the  books.  ...  I  can  hear 
it." 
[42] 


The  House  by  the  River 

The  person  shuffled  its  feet  on  the  step. 

"My  God!"  said  Stephen  again.  "My 
God!" 

In  the  hall  there  was  an  enormous  silence.  A 
tug  hooted  dismally  on  the  river.  Stephen 
started  scratching  again.  He  was  thinking  of 
his  wife  now,  of  Margery.  He  loved  Margery 

—  he  loved  her  very  truly  and  well.     And  she 
was  just  going  to  have  a  baby.     What  would  she 

—  How  would  she —     O  God! 

But  she  must  not  know.  He  would  do  some- 
thing in  a  minute  when  the  damned  fool  had  gone 
away.  Why  the  hell  didn't  he  go  away,  and 
leave  a  man  alone?  It  must  be  some  kind  of 
visitor  —  not  a  policeman,  or  a  panicky  neigh- 
bour. They  would  have  been  more  impatient. 
Why  the  hell  didn't  he  go?  It  was  Whittaker, 
perhaps.  Or  that  South  American  chap. 

The  person  did  not  go  away.  For  the  person 
had  only  been  on  the  doorstep  for  thirty  seconds 
in  all,  and  the  person  was  in  no  hurry. 

Soon  he  would  go  away  —  he  must  go  away, 
Stephen  thought.  The  hours  he  had  been  out 
there.  It  must  be  a  long  time,  because  Stephen's 
knees  were  so  sore.  And  he  did  want  to  get  on 
with  doing  something  —  he  was  not  clear  what  — 
but  something.  "  God  will  provide,"  he  thought. 

And  as  he  uttered  that  hideous  blasphemy  the 
person  began  to  whistle.  He  whistled  gently  an 

[43] 


The  House  by  the  River 

air  from  /  Pagliacci,  and  to  Stephen  Byrne,  it 
was  merciful  music.  For  it  was  a  favourite  tune 
of  John  Egerton's,  bowled  often  by  both  of  them 
at  casual  gatherings  of  the  Hammerton  Choir  in 
Mrs.  Bryne's  drawing-room.  It  must  be  John, 
after  all,  this  person  on  the  doorstep;  good  old 
John  —  thank  God !  If  it  was  John,  he  would 
let  him  in;  he  would  tell  him  the  whole  story. 
John  must  help  him. 

It  was  suddenly  revealed  to  Stephen  that  he 
could  not  bear  this  burden  alone.  It  was  too 
much.  John  was  the  man. 

But  one  must  be  careful.  One  must  make 
sure.  A  cunning  look  came  into  his  eyes.  With 
elaborate  stealth  he  crawled  backwards  from  Em- 
ily's body  and  so  into  Emily's  bedroom,  which 
looked  over  the  street.  Under  the  blind  he  rec- 
onnoitred the  front  doorstep.  The  back  of  the 
person  was  turned  towards  him,  but  it  was  clear 
to  him  that  the  person  was  John  Egerton,  though 
he  could  only  see  part  of  the  back  and  nothing 
of  the  head.  No  two  persons  in  Hammerton 
Chase,  or  probably  in  the  world,  wore  a  shabby 
green  coat  like  that.  It  was  certainly  John, 
come  round  for  some  singing,  no  doubt.  He 
walked  back  boldly  into  the  hall.  He  was  cooler 
now,  and  his  heart  was  working  more  deliberately. 
But  he  was  horribly  afraid.  He  put  out  the 
lights. 

[44] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Then  he  opened  the  front  door,  very  grudg- 
ingly, and  looked  round  the  corner. 

"  Hullo !  "  said  Egerton. 

"Hullo!"  said  Stephen.  "Come  in,"  and 
then,  with  a  sudden  urgency  —  "quick!" 

John  Egerton  came  slowly  in  and  stood  still 
in  the  dark. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  he  asked. 

Stephen  said,  "  I'm  in  a  hole,"  and  turned  on 
the  light. 

It  was  very  badly  managed.  No  doubt  he 
should  have  hidden  Emily  away  before  he  opened 
the  door;  should  have  led  up  gradually  to  the 
ultimate  revelation;  should  have  carefully  pre- 
pared a  man  like  Egerton  for  a  sight  like  the  body 
of  Emily  Gaunt.  For  it  was  a  coarse  and  terrible 
sight.  She  lay  on  her  back  by  the  hat-stand, 
with  her  dark  hair  tumbled  on  the  floor,  her  face 
mottled  and  blue,  her  eyes  gaping  disgustingly, 
her  throat  marked  and  inflamed  with  the  fingers  of 
her  employer.  The  coat  of  Cook  was  crumpled 
beneath  her,  and  she  had  torn  great  rents  in  her 
night-dress  in  her  desperate  resistance,  so  that 
she  lay  half-naked  in  the  cruel  glare  of  the  electric 
light.  Her  two  plump  legs  were  crossed  fantas- 
tically like  the  legs  of  a  crusader,  but  so  that  the 
feet  were  wide  apart.  Her  pink  flesh  glistened 
and  smelt  powerfully  of  soap. 

It  was  not  the  kind  of  thing  to  spring  upon  any 

[45] 


The  House  by  the  River 

man,  least  of  all  should  it  have  been  sprung  upon 
Egerton.  For  he  was  a  highly  sensitive  man 
and  easily  shocked.  He  had  not  been,  like 
Stephen,  to  the  war  —  being  a  Civil  Servant  and 
imperfect  in  the  chest  —  and  in  an  age  when  the 
majority  of  living  young  men  have  looked  largely 
on,  and  become  callous  about,  death,  John  Eger- 
ton had  never  seen  a  dead  body. 

And  he  was  a  person  of  extraordinary  modesty, 
in  the  sense  in  which  most  women  but  few  men 
possess  modesty.  He  had  a  real  chastity  of 
thought  which  few  men  ever  achieve.  John  Eg- 
erton was  no  prig.  Only  he  had  this  natural 
purity  of  outlook  which  made  him  actually  blush 
when  indelicate  things  were  said  on  the  stage  or 
hinted  at  in  private  society. 

And  now  he  was  suddenly  confronted  in  the 
house  of  his  best  friend  with  the  dead  and  dis- 
gusting body  of  a  half-naked  female.  He  was 
inexpressibly  shocked. 

When  the  light  went  on  and  he  looked  down 
at  the  floor,  his  mouth  opened  suddenly,  but  he 
said  no  word;  he  only  stared  incredulously  at  the 
sprawling  flesh. 

Then  he  began  to  blush.  A  faint  flush  trav- 
elled slowly  over  his  rather  sallow  face.  He 
looked  up  then  at  Stephen,  watching  anxiously  in 
the  corner. 

"What  the  devil—"  he  said. 
[46] 


The  House  by  the  River 

From  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke,  Stephen  real- 
ized suddenly  the  error  he  had  made.  Pulling 
down  a  coat  from  a  peg,  he  flung  it  over  the  body. 
Only  a  few  times  had  he  heard  John  Egerton  speak 
like  that  and  look  like  that,  but  he  knew  quite 
clearly  what  it  meant.  John  should  have  been 
kept  out  of  this.  Or  he  should  have  had  it  broken 
to  him.  Of  course.  But  there  was  no  time  — 
no  time  —  that  was  the  trouble.  Stephen  looked 
at  his  watch.  It  was  twenty  to  ten.  At  any  mo- 
ment his  wife  might  be  back.  Spmething  must  be 
done. 

He  opened  the  dining-room  door.  "  Come  in 
here,"  he  said,  and  they  went  in. 

John  Egerton  stood  by  the  sideboard  looking 
very  grim  and  perplexed.  He  could  not  be  called 
handsome,  not  at  least  beside  Stephen  Byrne. 
There  was  less  intellect  but  more  character  in  his 
face,  a  kind  of  moral  refinement  in  the  adequate 
jaw  and  steady  grey  eyes,  set  well  apart  under  in- 
different eyebrows.  His  face  was  pale  from  too 
much  office-work,  and  he  had  the  habit  of  a  for- 
ward stoop,  from  peering  nervously  at  new  peo- 
ple. These  things  gave  him,  somehow,  a  false 
air  of  primness,  and  a  little  detracted  from  the 
kindliness,  the  humanity,  which  was  the  secret  of 
his  character  and  his  charm.  For  ultimately  men 
were  charmed  by  John,  though  a  deep-seated  shy- 
ness concealed  him  from  them  at  a  fijst  meeting. 

[47] 


The  House  by  the  River 

His  voice  was  soft  and  unassuming,  his  mouth 
humorous  but  firm.  He  had  slightly  discoloured 
teeth,  not  often  visible.  Stephen's  teeth  were  ad- 
mirable and  flashed  attractively  when  he  smiled. 

"What's  it  all  mean?"  John  said.  "Is 
she  — " 

Stephen  said,  "  She's  dead  .  .  .  it's  Emily,  our 
maid." 

"How?"  Egerton  began. 

"I  —  I  was  playing  the  fool  .  .  .  pretended 
I  was  going  to  kiss  her,  you  know  .  .  .  the  little 
fool  thought  I  meant  it  ...  got  frightened 
.  .  .  then  something  ...  I  don't  know  what 
happened  exactly  .  .  .  she  bumped  her  head. 
.  .  .  Oh,  damn  it,  there's  no  time  to  explain 
.  .  .  we've  got  to  get  her  away  somehow  .  .  . 
and  I  want  you  to  help  .  .  .  Margery  .  .  ." 

"  Get  her  away?  "  said  John;  "  but  the  police 
...  you  can't  .  .  ." 

John  Egerton  was  still  far  from  grasping  the 
full  enormity  of  the  position.  He  had  been  badly 
shocked  by  the  sight  of  the  body  He  was  shocked 
by  his  friend's  incoherent  confession  of  some 
vulgar  piece  of  foolery  with  a  servant.  He  was 
amazed  that  a  man  like  Stephen  should  even  "  pre- 
tend "  that  he  was  going  to  kiss  a  servant.  That 
kind  of  thing  was  not  done  in  The  Chase,  and 
Stephen  was  not  that  kind  of  man,  he  thought. 
No  doubt  he  had  had  a  little  too  much  wine,  flung 
[48] 


The  House  by  the  River 

out  some  stupid  compliment  or  other;  there  had 
been  a  scuffle,  and  then  some  accident,  a  fall  or 
something  —  the  girl  probably  had  a  weak  heart; 
fleshy  people  often  did:  it  was  all  very  horrible 
and  regrettable,  but  not  criminal.  Nothing  to 
be  kept  from  the  police. 

But  it  was  damnably  awkward,  of  course,  with 
Mrs.  Byrne  in  that  condition.  Stephen's  splutter- 
ing mention  of  her  name  had  suddenly  reminded 
him  of  that.  There  would  be  policemen,  fusses, 
inquests,  and  things.  She  would  be  upset.  John 
had  a  great  regard  for  Mrs.  Bryne.  She  oughtn't 
to  be  upset  just  now.  But  it  couldn't  be  helped. 

Stephen  Byrne  was  pouring  out  port  again  —  a 
full  glass.  He  lifted  and  drank  it  with  an  impa- 
tient urgency,  leaning  back  his  black  head.  Some 
of  the  wine  spilled  out  as  he  drank,  and  flowed 
stickily  down  his  chin.  Three  drops  fell  on  his 
crumpled  shirt-front  and  swelled  slowly  into  pear- 
shaped  stains. 

His  friend's  failure  to  understand  was  clearly 
revealed  to  him,  and  filled  him  with  an  unreason- 
able irritation.  It  was  his  own  fault  of  course. 
He  should  have  told  him  the  whole  truth.  But 
somehow  he  couldn't  —  even  now  —  though 
every  moment  was  precious.  Even  now  he  could 
not  look  at  John  and  tell  him  simply  what  he  had 
done.  He  took  a  napkin  from  the  sideboard 

[49] 


The  House  by  the  River 

drawer  and  rubbed  it  foolishly  across  his  shirt- 
front,  as  he  spoke.  He  said: 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  John  .  .  .  don't  you  un- 
derstand ...  I  ...  I  believe  I  ...  I've  killed 
her  .  .  .  myself  ...  I  don't  know."  He  looked 
quickly  at  John  and  away  again.  John's  honest 
mouth  was  opening.  His  grey  eyes  were  wide 
and  horrified.  When  Stephen  saw  that,  he  hur- 
ried on,  "  I  may  be  wrong  .  .  .  but  anyhow  Mar- 
gery mustn't  know  anything  about  it  ...  you 
must  see  that  ...  it  would  probably  kill  her 
.  .  .  and  she'll  be  back  any  moment  now.  Oh, 
come  on,  for  God's  sake."  A  sudden  vision  of 
his  wife  walking  through  the  front  door  on  to  that 
horrible  thing  in  the  hall  spurred  him  to  the  door. 

John  Egerton  stood  still  by  the  solid  table,  his 
hands  gripping  the  edge  of  it  behind  him.  He 
understood  now. 

"Good  God!"  he  said  quickly,  as  if  to  him- 
self, and  again,  "Good  God!"  Then  starting 
up,  "  But,  Stephen,  it's  .  .  .  it's  .  .  .  you  mean 
.  .  ."  Suddenly  the  word  "  murder  "  had  flashed 
into  his  thoughts,  and  that  word  seemed  to  light 
up  the  whole  ghastly  business,  made  it  immedi- 
ately more  hideous.  "  It's  murder''  he  had  been 
going  to  say,  but  some  fantastic  sense  of  delicacy 
stopped  him. 

Stephen  halted  at  the  door.  A  wild  rage  came 
over  him.  There  was  a  strange  kind  of  fierce  res- 
[50] 


The  House  by  the  River 

olution  about  him  then  which  his  friend  had  never 
seen  before. 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  don't  stand  dithering 
there,  John,"  he  flung  back.  "  Are  you  going  to 
help  me  or  not?  If  not,  clear  out  ...  if  you 
are,  come  on  ...  quick,  before  Margery 
comes."  He  went  into  the  hall. 

John  Egerton  said  no  more,  but  followed. 
That  illuminating  unspoken  word  "  murder," 
which  had  shown  him  the  whole  awfulness  of  this 
affair  had  shown  him  also  the  urgency  of  the 
present  moment,  the  necessity  of  helping  Stephen 
to  "  get  her  away."  For  Margery  Byrne's  sake. 
Just  how  he  felt  towards  Stephen  at  that  moment, 
what  he  would  have  done  if  Stephen  had  been  a 
bachelor,  he  had  had  not  time  to  consider.  And 
it  did  not  matter.  For  Mrs.  Byrne's  —  for  Mar- 
gery's —  sake,  something  must  be  done,  as 
Stephen  said.  And  he,  John  Egerton,  must  help. 
'  What  are  you  going  to  do?  "  he  said. 

Stephen  was  crouched  on  his  haunches,  busily 
tidying  Emily's  night-dress,  pulling  it  about. 

"  The  river,"  he  said  shortly.  "  It's  high 
tide  —  Thank  God !  "  he  added. 

John  Egerton  looked  shrinkingly  at  the  torn 
and  ineffective  night-dress,  at  the  wide  spaces  of 
pink  flesh  showing  through  the  rents.  He  could 
not  imagine  himself  picking  up  that  body.  He 
said,  "  What?  —  like  —  like  that?  " 


The  House  by  the  River 

Stephen  looked  up.  "Yes,"  he  said;  "why 
not?"  But  he  knew  very  well  why  not.  Be- 
cause of  a  certain  insane  sense  of  decency  which 
governs  even  a  murderer  in  the  presence  of  death. 
Emily  Gaunt  must  not  be  "  got  away  "  like  that ! 
Besides,  it  would  be  dangerous.  He  thought  for 
a  moment.  Then,  "  No,"  he  said.  "  Wait  a 
minute,"  and  clattered  down  the  basement  stairs. 

When  he  came  back  he  was  trailing  behind  him 
a  long  and  capacious  sack,  which  had  hung  on  a 
nail  in  the  scullery  for  the  receipt  of  waste  paper 
and  bottles  and  odds  and  ends  of  domestic  refuse. 
The  sack,  fortunately,  had  been  only  half  full. 
All  its  contents  he  had  tumbled  recklessly  on  the 
scullery  floor.  But  as  he  came  up  the  stairs  he 
was  curiously  disturbed  by  the  thought  of  that 
refuse.  What  was  to  be  done  with  it?  What 
would  Margery  say?  The  scullery  had  been  re- 
cently cleaned  out,  he  knew.  And  the  sack? 
How  could  he  explain  its  disappearance?  These 
damned  details. 

"  Here  you  are,"  he  said.  "  This  will  do,"  and 
he  laid  the  sack  on  the  floor. 

He  began  to  put  Emily  into  the  sack.  He  drew 
the  mouth  of  the  sack  over  her  feet.  They  were 
already  cold.  John  Egerton  stood  stiffly  under 
the  light,  in  a  kind  of  paralysis  of  disgust.  He 
felt  "  I  must  help !  .  .  .  I  must  help !  "  but  some- 
how he  could  not  move  a  finger. 
[52] 


The  House  by  the  River 

The  sack  was  over  the  knees  now.  It  was 
strangely  difficult.  The  toes  kept  catching. 

But  Stephen  was  fantastically  preoccupied  with 
the  refuse  on  the  scullery  floor,  with  coming  ex- 
planations about  the  sack.  '  There'll  be  an  aw- 
ful row,"  he  said  ..."  the  hell  of  a  mess  down 
there  .  .  .  what  shall  I  say  about  the  sack?  " 
Then,  suddenly,  "What  shall  I  say,  John?  .  .  . 
Think  of  something,  for  God's  sake !  " 

John  Egerton  jumped.  The  wild  incongruity 
of  Stephen's  question  scarcely  occurred  to  him. 
He  tried  solemnly  to  think  of  something  to  say 
about  the  sack.  He  would  be  helpful  here, 
surely.  But  no  thought  came.  His  mind  was  a 
confused  muddle  of  night-dresses  and  inquests  and 
naked  legs  and  Margery  Byrne  —  Margery 
Byrne  arriving  quietly  on  the  doorstep  —  Mar- 
gery Byrne  scandalized,  agonized,  hideously, 
fatally  ill. 

"  I  don't  know,  Stephen,"  he  said  feebly  — 
"  I  don't  know  .  .  .  say  you  .  .  .  oh,  any- 
thing." 

He  was  fascinated  now  by  the  progress  of  the 
sack,  which  had  nearly  covered  the  legs.  He  saw 
clearly  that  a  moment  was  coming  when  he  would 
have  to  help,  when  one  of  them  would  have  to  lift 
Emily  and  one  of  them  manipulate  the  sack.  Al- 
ready Stephen  was  cursing  and  in  difficulties. 
The  night-dress  kept  rucking  up  and  had  to  be 

[53] 


The  House  by  the  River 

pulled  back,  and  when  that  was  done  the  sack 
lost  ground  again. 

"  Oh,  hell!  "  he  said,  with  a  note  of  final  ex- 
asperation, "  lend  a  hand,  John  —  lift  her  a  bit," 
and  then  as  John  still  hesitated,  sick  with  reluc- 
tance, "  Oh,  lift  her,  can't  you?  " 

John  stooped  down.  The  moment  had  come. 
He  put  his  hands  under  the  small  of  Emily's  back, 
shuddering  as  he  touched  her.  With  an  effort 
he  lifted  her  an  inch  or  two.  With  a  great 
heave  Stephen  advanced  the  sack  six  inches. 
Then  it  caught  again  in  those  maddening  toes. 
With  a  guttural  exclamation  of  rage  he  turned 
back  towards  the  feet  and  tugged  furiously  at 
the  sack.  When  it  was  free  John  Egerton  had 
relaxed  his  hold.  Emily  was  lying  heavy  on  the 
slack  of  the  sack.  He  was  gazing  with  a  kind  of 
helpless  horror  at  the  purple  inflammation  of  Em- 
ily's throat,  realizing  for  the  first  time  just  how 
brutal  and  violent  he'r  end  had  been. 

Stephen  cursed  again.  "  Lift,  damn  you,  lift 
—  oh,  hell!" 

John  lifted,  and  with  a  wild  fumbling  impa- 
tience the  whole  of  Emily's  body  was  covered. 
Only  the  head  and  one  arm  were  left.  They  had 
forgotten  the  arm.  It  lay  flung  out  away  from 
the  body,  half  hidden  under  an  overcoat. 
Stephen  seized  it  savagely  and  tried  to  bend  it 
in  under  the  mouth  of  the  sack,  with  brutal  ridicu- 
[54] 


The  House  by  the  River 

lous  tugs,  like  an  ill-tempered  man  packing  an 
over-loaded  bag.  John  watched  him  with  grow- 
ing disapproval. 

"  That's  no  good,"  he  said.  "  Pull  down  the 
sack  again." 

Stephen  did  so.  The  sweat  now  was  running 
down  his  face;  he  was  spent  and  panting,  and  his 
composure  was  all  gone.  With  his  black  hair 
ruffled  over  his  forehead  he  looked  wicked. 

Something  of  his  impatience  had  communicated 
itself  to  John,  mastering  even  his  abhorrence. 
He  wanted  furiously  to  get  the  thing  done.  It 
was  he  now  who  seized  the  recalcitrant  arm  and 
thrust  it  into  the  sack;  it  was  he  who  fiercely  pulled 
the  sack  over  Emily's  head,  and  hid  at  last  that 
puffy  and  appalling  face  with  a  long  "  Ah  —  h  " 
of  relief.  At  the  mouth  of  the  sack  was  a  fortu- 
nate piece  of  cord,  threaded  through  a  circle  of 
ragged  holes. 

John  Egerton  pulled  it  tight  and  fumbled  at 
the  making  of  a  knot.  He  felt  vaguely  that  some- 
thing special  in  the  way  of  knots  was  required  — 
a  bowline  —  a  reef  knot  or  something  —  not  a 
"  granny,"  anyhow.  How  was  it  you  tied  a  reef 
knot?  Dimly  remembered  instructions  came  to 
him  —  "  the  same  string  over  both  times  " —  or 
"  under,"  wasn't  it? 

Stephen  crouched  at  his  side,  dazedly  watching 
his  mobile  fingers  muddling  with  the  cord. 

[55] 


The  House  by  the  River 

A  step  sounded  outside  on  the  pavement. 
Stephen  woke  up  with  a  whispered  "  My  God!  " 
and  panic  snatched  at  the  pair  of  them.  Fever- 
ishly John  finished  his  knot  and  tugged  at  the 
ends.  It  was  a  "  granny,"  he  saw,  but  a  granny  it 
must  remain.  The  steps  had  surely  stopped  out- 
side the  door. 

"  Quick,"  he  whispered,  and  got  his  right  arm 
under  the  sack.  Stumbling  and  straining,  with  a 
reckless  disturbance  of  rugs  and  mats,  they  bun- 
dled the  sagging  body  of  Emily  Gaunt  into  the 
dining-room.  In  the  dining-room  John  Egerton 
halted  and  laid  his  end  of  her  down.  He  was  not 
strong,  and  she  was  heavy.  Stephen  clung  to  her 
feet,  and  the  two  of  them  stood  listening,  very 
shaky  and  afraid.  There  was  no  sound  in  the 
street  now.  The  steps  must  have  passed  the  door. 
From  the  rear  there  was  the  melancholy  hooting 
of  a  tug,  calling  for  its  waiting  barges  at  Ginger 
Wharf.  They  could  hear  the  slow,  methodical 
panting  of  her  engines  and  the  furtive  swish  of 
the  water  at  her  bows.  In  the  garden  a  cat  was 
wailing  —  horribly  like  a  child  in  pain.  To  John 
Egerton  these  familiar  sounds  seemed  like  the 
noises  of  a  new  world,  the  new  world  he  had  en- 
tered at  about  a  quarter-past  nine,  when  he  had 
become  a  partner,  an  accomplice,  in  this  wretched 
piece  of  brutality  and  deceit.  He  felt  curiously 
identified  with  it  now  —  he  was  part  of  it,  not 
[56] 


The  House  by  the  River 

merely  an  impersonal  observer.  He  had  a  sen- 
sation of  personal  guilt. 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  somebody,  very  far  away, 
in  the  voice  of  Stephen  Byrne  —  a  hoarse  and  fur- 
tive voice. 

John  Egerton  picked  up  his  burden,  and  another 
staggering  stage  was  accomplished  into  the  con- 
servatory. 

It  was  dusk  now,  but  a  large  moon  was  up,  and 
thin  streams  of  silver  filtered  through  the  opaque 
roof  and  the  crowded  vine-leaves  on  to  the  long 
bundle  on  the  floor.  It  was  too  light,  Stephen 
thought,  for  this  kind  of  work. 

When  they  had  halted  he  said,  "  Wait  a  min- 
ute, John  —  I'll  go  and  see  if  the  coast  is  clear." 
He  went  quickly  down  the  stone. steps  into  the  tiny 
garden.  The  long,  rich  grass  of  Stephen's 
"  lawn  "  was  drenched  and  glistening  with  dew. 
There  was  the  heavy  scent  of  something  in  the 
next-door  garden,  and  over  all  a  hot,  intolerable 
stillness.  Stephen  became  suddenly  oppressed 
with  the  sense  of  guilt.  Instinctively  he  stepped 
on  to  the  wet  grass  and  rustled  softly  through  it 
to  the  river,  his  silk  socks  sponging  up  the  dew. 

Over  the  shallow  wall  he  inspected  furtively  the 
silent  river.  Nothing  moved.  It  was  slack 
water,  and  the  downward  procession  of  tugs  had 
not  properly  begun.  The  water  was  smooth;  the 
black  reflections  of  the  opposite  trees  were  sharp 

[57] 


The  House  by  the  River 

and  perfect.  'Down  towards  Hammersmith  a 
few  lights  hung  like  pendant  jewels  in  the  water. 
Over  the  far  houses  there  was  a  flicker  like  sum- 
mer lightning  from  an  electric  train.  A  huddle 
of  driftwood  and  odd  refuse  floated  motionless 
in  mid-stream,  very  black  and  visible,  waiting  for 
the  tide  to  turn;  but  along  the  edges  the  stream 
already  crept  stealthily  down,  lapping  softly 
against  the  moored  ranks  of  boats,  against 
Stephen's  boat  riding  comfortably  beneath  him. 
In  the  neighbouring  gardens  nothing  moved. 
About  this  hour  in  the  hot  weather  the  residents 
of  Hammerton  Chase  would  creep  out  secretly 
into  their  gardens  and  cast  their  refuse  into  the 
river,  and  there  was  often  to  be  heard  at  dusk  a 
scattered  succession  of  subdued  splashes. 

But  tonight  there  were  no  splashes.  Probably 
the  duty  was  already  done.  Stephen  remembered 
incongruously  this  local  habit,  and  was  at  once 
relieved  and  disappointed.  Too  many  people 
prowling  in  their  gardens  might  be  dangerous. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  was  a  certain  safety  in 
a  multitude  of  splashes.  One  more  would  have 
made  no  difference. 

There  were  no  splashes  now,  and  scarcely  any 
sound:  only  the  fretful  muttering  of  distant  traf- 
fic, the  occasional  rumble  of  buses  on  the  far-off 
bridge,  and  the  small  plops  of  fishes  leaping  at 
the  moon.  Close  to  Stephen  was  an  unobtrusive 
[58] 


The  House  by  the  River 

munching  in  the  wired  space  where  Joan's  rabbits 
were  kept.  A  buck  rabbit  lay  hunched  in  the 
moonlight  masticating  contentedly  the  last  rem- 
nants of  the  evening  cabbage.  Another  nosed  at 
the  wire-netting,  begging  without  conviction  for 
further  illicit  supplies.  Stephen  stooped  down 
automatically  and  rubbed  his  nose. 

But  for  the  moonlight  and  the  present  slack- 
ness of  the  tide  the  moment  was  propitious. 
Stephen  walked  back  more  boldly  into  the  conser- 
vatory. "  You  take  the  feet,"  he  said. 

Without  further  speech  they  picked  up  the  bun- 
dle and  descended  laboriously  into  the  garden. 
The  bright  moon  intimidated  John.  He  looked 
back  over  his  shoulder  for  people  peering  out  of 
windows.  But  only  the  windows  of  his  own  house 
commanded  the  garden;  and  Mrs.  Bantam,  his 
housekeeper,  would  be  long  since  in  bed.  Pad- 
dling quietly  through  the  dew,  he,  too,  thought 
fantastically  of  other  burdens  he  had  smuggled 
down  to  the  river  on  many  a  breathless  night, 
pailfuls  of  potato-peelings  and  old  tins  and  ashes. 
In  his  mind  he  gave  a  mute  hysterical  chuckle  at 
the  thought.  What  other  residents,  he  wondered, 
had  taken  this  kind  of  contraband  through  their 
gardens  in  the  secret  night?  Old  Dimple,  the 
barrister  —  ha!  ha!  —  or  Mrs.  Ambrose?  Per- 
haps they,  too,  had  strangled  people  in  their 
house  and  consigned  them  guiltily  to  the  condon- 

[59] 


The  House  by  the  River 

ing  Thames.  Perhaps  all  those  sober,  respecta- 
ble people  were  capable,  like  Stephen,  of  aston- 
ishing crimes.  Nothing,  now,  could  be  really 
surprising.  God,  what's  that? 

There  was  a  sudden  scuffle  and  clatter  in  the 
dark  angle  by  the  river  wall  —  only  the  rabbits 
panicking  into  corners  at  the  silent  coming  of  a 
stranger.  But  John  was  aware  of  the  violent 
beating  of  his  heart. 

They  laid  Emily  on  the  ground  and  looked 
over  the  wall.  The  tide  now  had  definitely 
turned.  The  middle  stream  was  smoothly  mov- 
ing, oily  and  swift.  John  felt  happier.  It  would 
soon  be  over  now.  An  easy  thing,  to  slip  her  over 
into  the  friendly  water  ...  no  more  of  this  hid- 
eous heaving  and  fumbling  with  a  cold  body  in  a 
sweat  of  anxiety. 

But  to  Stephen,  regarding  doubtfully  the  close 
row  of  boats  a  hundred  yards  downstream,  new 
and  disquieting  uncertainties  had  occurred.  To 
him,  too,  it  had  seemed  a  simple  thing  to  drop 
Emily  over  the  wall  and  let  the  river  dispose  of 
her.  But  supposing  the  river  failed,  flung  her 
against  the  mooring-chain  of  one  of  those  boats, 
jammed  her  with  the  tide  under  the  sloping  bows 
of  Mr.  Adamson's  decrepit  hulk,  left  her  there  till 
the  tide  went 'down.  .  .  .  He  saw  with  a  fright- 
ening clearness  Emily  Gaunt  being  discovered  in 
the  morning  on  the  muddy  foreshore  of  Hammer- 

[60] 


The  House  by  the  River 

ton  Terrace  —  discovered  by  Andrews,  the  long- 
shoreman, or  a  couple  of  small  boys,  or  Thin- 
gummy Rawlins,  prowling  down  from  his  garden 
to  tinker  with  his  motor-boat.  .  .  .  No,  that 
would  never  do. 

He  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  John  .  .  .  we'll  have 
to  take  her  out  in  the  boat  .  .  .  we  can't  just 
drop  her.  .  .  .  These  damned  boats  .  .  .  sup- 
posing she  caught  .  .  ." 

John  Egerton  uttered  a  long  groan  of  disap- 
pointment. It  was  not  all  over,  then.  There 
must  be  more  liftings  and  irritations,  more  dam- 
nable association  with  this  vileness. 

"O  Lord!"  he  protested.  "Stephen,  I 
can't.  .  .  ."  His  face  was  pale  and  almost 
piteous  under  the  moon. 

Stephen  answered  him  without  petulance  this 
time.  "  John,  old  man  —  for  God's  sake,  see  it 
through  ...  we  must  get  on,  and  I  can't  do  it 
without  you.  .  .  .  I'm  awfully  sorry  .  .  .  It's 
got  to  be  done.  .  .  ."  The  appeal  in  his  voice 
succeeded  as  an  irritable  outburst  could  not  have 
done. 

John  Egerton  braced  himself  again.  In  his 
own  mind  he  recognized  the  practical  wisdom  of 
using  the  boat.  He  said  with  a  great  weariness, 
"  Come  on  then." 

It  was  a  long  and  difficult  business  getting  that 
body  into  the  boat.  A  flight  of  wooden  steps  led 

[61] 


The  House  by  the  River 

down  from  the  wall  to  the  water,  and  from  there 
the  boat  —  a  small  motor-boat,  half-dinghy,  half- 
canoe  —  had  to  be  hauled  in  with  a  boat-hook  for 
Stephen  to  step  acrobatically  into  her  and  unfasten 
the  moorings.  Then  she  had  to  be  paddled  close 
up  under  the  wall  and  fastened  lightly  to  the  steps. 
While  Stephen  was  doing  this  a  tug  swished  by, 
with  a  black  string  of  barges  clinging  clumsily 
astern.  The  red  eye  of  her  port-light  glared 
banefully  across  the  water.  John  felt  that  the 
man  in  that  tug  must  guess  infallibly  what  work 
he  was  at.  A  solitary  lantern  in  the  stern  of  the 
sternmost  barge  flickered  about  the  single  figure 
standing  at  the  tiller.  He  could  see  the  face  of 
the  man,  turned  unmistakably  towards  him. 

She  was  travelling  fast,  and  Stephen  cursed  as 
her  wash  took  hold  of  his  little  boat  and  tossed 
her  up  and  banged  her  against  the  wall  and  the 
rickety  steps.  John,  leaning  anxiously  over, 
could  hear  his  muttered  execrations  as  he  fended 
her  off. 

Then  there  was  a  hot,  whispered  argument  — 
on  the  best  way  of  getting  the  body  down,  Stephen 
standing  swaying  in  the  boat,  with  his  face  up- 
turned, like  some  ridiculous  moonlight  lover,  John 
flinging  down  assertions  and  reasonings  in  a  forced 
whisper  which  broke  now  and  then  into  a  harsh 
undertone.  Stephen  thought  it  should  be  carted 
down  the  steps.  John,  with  an  aching  objection 
[62] 


The  House  by  the  River 

to  further  prolonged  contact  with  the  thing,  said 
it  should  be  lowered  with  a  rope.  "  Haven't  you 
a  bit  of  rope?  "  he  reiterated  —  "  a  bit  of  rope 
—  much  the  best." 

Sick  of  argument,  Stephen  fumbled  with  wild 
mutterings  in  his  locker,  and  brought  out  in  a 
muddle  of  oil-cans  and  tools  a  length  of  stout 
cord.  Together  they  made  a  rough  bight  about 
Emily's  middle,  together  lifted  her  to  the  flat 
stone  parapet  of  the  wall. 

When  she  was  there  a  dog  barked  suspiciously 
in  Hammerton  Terrace;  another  echoed  him  along 
The  Chase.  The  two  men  crouched  against  the 
wall  in  a  tense  and  ridiculous  agitation. 

Through  all  these  emergencies  and  arguments 
and  muffled  objurgations  there  stirred  in  John's 
mind  ironical  recollections  of  passages  in  detec- 
tive stories,  where  dead  bodies  were  constantly 
being  transported  with  facility  and  dispatch  in 
any  desired  direction.  It  seemed  so  easy  in  the 
books,  it  was  so  damnably  difficult  in  practice  — 
or  so  they  were  finding  it. 

And  always  there  was  the  menace  of  Margery's 
return;  she  must  be  back  soon,  she  would  cer- 
tainly come  out  into  the  garden  on  a  night  like 
this.  .  .  . 

When  they  had  the  body  stretched  flat  and 
ready  on  the  wall,  Stephen  went  back  into  the 
boat.  It  had  sidled  down  below  the  steps,  and 

[63] 


The  House  by  the  River 

had  to  be  hauled  back.  The  tide  was  madden- 
ingly strong.  Stephen  urged  the  boat  with  im- 
precations under  the  wall.  To  keep  it  there  he 
must  hold  on  stoutly  with  a  boat-hook,  and  could 
give  little  help  to  John  in  the  detested  task  of  low- 
ering the  sack.  John's  hands  were  clammy  with 
sweat  like  the  hands  of  a  gross  man.  He  gripped 
the  rope  with  a  desperate  energy  and  thrust 
Emily  gently  over  the  side.  The  rope  dragged 
and  scraped  across  the  parapet;  the  body  swayed 
in  the  moonlight  with  a  preposterous  see-saw 
motion.  When  it  was  half-way  to  the  water,  they 
heard  a  tug  puffing  rhythmically  towards  them  — 
somewhere  beyond  the  Island.  It  was  not  yet  in 
sight,  but  a  resistless  unreasoning  panic  imme- 
diately invaded  them.  Stephen,  with  one  free 
hand,  clawed  recklessly  at  an  edge  of  sacking; 
John,  in  a  furious  effort  to  quicken  the  descent  of 
Emily,  lost  altogether  his  control  of  the  rope. 
The  rope  slipped  swiftly  through  his  moist  and 
impotent  palms.  Emily,  with  an  intimidating 
bump  and  a  wooden  clatter  of  sculls,  fell  ponder- 
ously into  the  boat  and  lay  sprawled  across  the 
gunwale.  A  sibilant  "  Damned  fool !  "  slid  up 
the  wall  from  Stephen,  almost  overbalanced  by 
the  sudden  descent  of  the  body.  The  two  men 
waited  with  an  elaborate  assumption  of  innocence 
while  the  tug  fussed  past,  their  hearts  pounding 
absurdly.  Then,  before  the  wash  had  come,  John 

[64] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Egerton  stepped  gingerly  down  the  creaking  steps, 
and  they  pushed  out  into  the  rolling  reflection  of 
the  moon.  The  nose  of  the  boat  lifted  steeply  on 
the  oily  swell  of  the  tug's  wash,  and  the  head  of 
Emily  slipped  down  with  a  thump  over  the  thwart, 
her  feet  still  projecting  obliquely  over  the  side; 
John  Egerton  pulled  them  in.  He  looked  back 
with  a  new  disquiet  at  the  still  and  silvery  houses 
of  Hammerton  Terrace,  at  the  dim  shrubberies 
along  The  Chase.  There  were  lights  in  some  of 
the  houses.  Out  there  under  the  public  moon  he 
felt  very  visible  and  suspect  —  a  naked  feeling. 

He  heard  a  remote  mutter  from  Stephen,  pad- 
dling in  the  bows:  "Too  many  of  these  damned 
tugs  !  "  and  another :  "  This  filthy  moon!  "  They 
were  working  slowly  against  the  tide  between 
the  Island  and  the  mainland  of  The  Chase. 
Stephen's  plan  was  to  round  the  top  of  the  Island, 
cross  the  river,  and  get  rid  of  Emily  in  the  shad- 
ows of  the  other  side,  drifting  down  with  the  tide. 

Even  in  the  narrow  channel  by  the  bank  the 
tide  was  exasperating,  and  paddling  the  boat, 
heavy  with  the  engine,  was  slow  work  and  strenu- 
ous. But  the  engine  would  be  too  noisy.  And 
it  was  an  uncertain  starter. 

Stephen  said  at  last,  "  Hell !  get  out  the 
sculls!" 

John  Egerton  groped  in  the  locker  for  row- 
locks with  an  oppressive  sense  of  incompetence 

[65] 


The  House  by  the  River 

and  delay.  His  fingers  moved  with  an  ineffectual 
urgency  in  a  messy  confusion  of  spanners  and 
oil-cans,  tins  of  grease,  and  slimy  labyrinths  of 
thin  cord.  Only  one  rowlock  was  discoverable. 
The  finding  of  the  second  became  in  his  mind  a 
task  of  inconceivable  importance  and  difficulty. 
Vast  issues  depended  on  it  —  Stephen  .  .  . 
Margery  .  .  .  babies  .  .  .  Emily  Gaunt  .  .  .  and 
somehow  or  other  Mrs.  Bantam.  Thunderous 
mutterings  rolled  down  distantly  from  the  bows. 
John  groaned  helplessly.  He  caught  his  fingers 
sharply  on  the  edge  of  a  screw-driver.  "  It's 
not  here  .  .  .  it's  not  here  ...  it  can't  be, 
Stephen."  With  a  sense  of  heroic  measures  he 
hauled  out  in  clattering  handfuls  the  whole  mud- 
dle of  implements  in  the  locker.  Under  the  elec- 
tric coil  lurked  the  missing  rowlock. 

"  Row,  then,  like  the  devil,"  ordered  Stephen. 
Out  here,  in  this  strange  watery  adventure, 
Stephen  was  the  readily  acknowledged  comman- 
der. John  rowed,  with  grunts  and  splashings. 

They  rounded  the  Island,  the  moon  glowing  re- 
motely beyond  it  through  the  traceries  of  young 
willow  stems.  Stephen  was  doing  something  with 
an  anchor  at  the  mouth  of  the  sack,  breathing  au- 
dibly through  his  nose.  John  sculled  obliquely 
across  the  river,  struggling  against  the  tide,  stead- 
ily losing  ground,  he  felt.  "  Losing  ground,"  he 
thought  insanely,  "  ought  to  be  losing  water,  of 
[66] 


The  House  by  the  River 

course."  So  strangely  do  the  minds  of  men  move 
in  critical  hours. 

When  they  were  half-way  over,  the  chunk- 
chunk  of  a  motor-boat  came  lazily  upstream. 
"God!"  said  Stephen,  "a  police-boat."  John 
thought,  "  Will  it  never  end?  "  It  was  appalling, 
this  accummulation  of  obstacles  and  delays  and 
potential  witnesses.  He  was  tired  now,  and 
acutely  conscious  of  a  general  perspiration. 

They  drifted  downstream  under  the  bank,  while 
the  police-boat  phutted  up  on  the  far  side,  a  low 
black  shape  without  lights.  Caped  figures  chat- 
tered easily  in  the  stern  and  took  no  evident  notice 
of  the  small  white  motor-boat  under  the  bank; 
but  Stephen  and  John  imagined  fatal  suspicions 
and  perceptions  proceeding  under  the  peaked  caps. 
They  passed. 

"Now!"  Stephen  was  fiddling  with  his  an- 
chor again,  tugging  at  a  knot;  his  tone  was  final. 
"  Take  her  out  into  the  middle  again  .  .  . 
quick!" 

John  pulled  gallantly  with  his  left.  They  were 
opposite  the  house  again  now,  moving  smoothly 
towards  Hammersmith  Bridge.  No  other  craft 
was  in  sight  or  sound. 

Stephen  said  thickly,  "  If  we  don't  get  her  over 
now,  we  never  shall  .  .  .  stand  by.  .  .  .  No, 
no  ...  you  trim  the  boat.  .  .  .  I'll  manage  it." 

He  edged  Emily  close  up  against  the  gunwale, 


The  House  by  the  River 

her  extremities  on  a  couple  of  thwarts,  her  middle 
sagging  down  the  side  of  the  boat.  He  looked 
quickly  up  the  river  and  down  the  river  and  at 
Hammerton  Terrace  and  at  the  oil-mills  below 
and  at  the  empty  tow-path  on  the  opposite  bank, 
all  silent,  all  still.  Stephen  put  a  hand  under  the 
sack.  Close  by  a  tiny  fish  leaped  lightly  from  the 
river.  Stephen  saw  the  flash  of  its  belly,  and  took 
his  hand  away  with  a  start.  Then  with  a  great 
heave  under  Emily's  middle,  a  violent  pushing  and 
lifting  with  feet  and  body  and  arms,  that  set  the 
sculls  clattering  and  the  boat  precariously  rock- 
ing he  got  the  body  half  over  the  gunwale,  John 
perched  anxiously  on  the  other  side,  striving  to 
correct  the  already  dangerous  list.  Stephen 
struggled  blasphemously  with  the  infuriating  sack. 
Somehow,  somewhere  it  was  maddeningly  entan- 
gled with  something  in  the  boat.  Frantic  tugging 
and  thrusting,  irritable  oaths,  moved  it  not  at  all. 
John  looked  fearfully  behind  him.  A  lighted 
omnibus  was  swimming  through  space,  perilously 
near  .  .  .  Hammersmith  Bridge.  Stephen  was 
kicking  the  body  now  with  a  futile  savagery. 
"  What  the  hell?  "  he  said.  "  O  God!  " 
John  groped  distantly  with  a  hand  in  the  dark. 
Then,  "The  anchor!"  he  said  —  "the  anchor's 
caught.  .  .  ."  He  heard  a  relieved  "  O  Lord!  " 
from  Stephen,  "  thought  I'd  put  the  anchor  end 
over  first  " —  and  for  the  first  time  made  himself 
[68] 


The  House  by  the  River 

a  petulant  comment,  "  Why  the  devil  didn't 
you?"  It  was  too  much  —  this  sort  of  thing. 
Then  the  shaggy  end  of  the  sack  was  slithering 
quietly  over  the  side,  the  anchor  twinkled  swiftly 
in  the  moon,  and  the  relieved  boat  rocked  sud- 
denly with  a  wild,  delighted  levity.  Emily  was 
gone. 

Peering  back  upstream,  the  two  men  saw  a 
slowly  expanding  circle  on  the  black  water  And 
there  were  a  few  bubbles.  Emily  was  indeed 
gone. 

Stephen  sat  in  a  limp  posture  of  absolute  ex- 
haustion, his  shoulders  hunched,  his  head  on  his 
hands,  speechless. 

John  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  a  quarter- 
past  ten  —  only  about  an  hour  since  Emily  died. 
He  stared  incredulous  at  the  faintly  luminous 
hands.  Then  he  looked  round;  the  boat  seemed 
to  be  drifting  very  fast.  On  his  right  were  the 
boat-houses,  a  dark  huddle  of  boats  clinging  to 
the  rafts  in  front  of  them.  The  boat-houses  were 
next  to  the  Bridge. 

He  looked  back  and  up,  with  a  new  fear.  The 
long  span  of  the  suspension  bridge  hung  almost 
above  them.  A  bus  rumbled  ominously  above. 
Two  persons  were  standing  on  the  footpath 
against  the  parapet,  looking  down  at  the  boat. 
He  could  see  the  pale  blobs  of  their  faces.  One 
of  them  had  a  Panama  hat. 

[69] 


The  House  by  the  River 

The  boat  shot  into  the  dark  under  the  Bridge. 

John  leaned  forward.  "  Stephen,"  he  whis- 
pered—  "Stephen."  There  was  no  answer. 
John  touched  his  knee.  "  Stephen." 

A  yellow  face  lifted  slowly.     "What  is  it?" 

"  There  was  some  one  watching  on  the  Bridge 
.  .  .  two  men." 

Stephen  sighed  with  a  profound  weariness. 

"  It  can't  be  helped,"  he  said. 

A  dreadful  paralysis  seemed  to  have  succeeded 
the  heavy  strain.  He  looked  as  the  men  used  to 
look  after  a  long  spell  in  the  line,  sitting  at  last 
in  a  dingy  billet  —  played  out. 

John  Egerton  took  the  sculls  and  turned  the 
boat  round.  The  boat  moved  stiffly,  with  a 
steady  gurgle  at  the  bows ;  the  noiseless  tide  swung 
violently  by;  the  oars  creaked  complainingly. 

"  This  tide  .   .   ."  muttered  John. 

Stephen  Byrne  raised  his  head.  "  The  tide's 
going  out,"  he  said  stupidly. 


IV 

MARGERY  BYRNE  walked  home  very 
happily  from  the  Underground  Station 
at  Stamford  Brook,  The  ticket  col- 
lector uttered  a  reverent  "Good  night,  mum"; 
the  policeman  at  the  corner  of  St.  Peter's  Square 
brightened  suddenly  at  her  and  saluted  with  the 
imperishable  manner  of  past  military  service. 
The  world  was  very  kind  and  friendly,  she  felt. 
But  that  was  the  usual  manner  of  the  world  to 
Margery  Byrne.  The  world  invariably  looked 
at  her  as  it  passed  her  in  the  street.  The  male 
world  invariably  looked  again.  The  mannerless 
male  world  usually  looked  back.  The  shameless 
male  world  stared  at  her  in  Tubes  and  manoeu- 
vred obviously  for  commanding  positions.  But 
that  part  of  the  world,  having  secured  its 
positions,  was  generally  either  disappointed  or 
abashed.  There  was  an  aspect  of  fragility  and 
virtue  about  her  which  stirred  in  the  bold  and 
shameless  male  the  almost  atrophied  instincts  of 
chivalry  and  protection.  After  a  little  they 
ceased  to  stare,  but  opened  doors  for  her  with  a 
conscious  knighthood.  There  are  women  who 
make  a  man  feel  evil  at  the  sight  of  them.  Mar- 
gery made  a  man  feel  good. 


The  House  by  the  River 

But  this  aspect  of  fragility  was  without  any 
suggestion  of  feebleness.  It  was  just  that  she 
was  slight  and  fair,  and  her  face  small  and  her 
features  intensely  delicate  and  refined.  She  had 
a  rarefied  look —  as  if  all  flaws  and  imperfections 
and  superfluities  had  been  somehow  chemically 
removed,  leaving  only  the  essential  stamina  and 
grace.  For  she  had  stamina.  She  walked  with 
an  easy  un-urban  swing,  and  she  could  walk  a  long 
way.  Her  lips  were  little  and  slightly  anaemic, 
but  firm.  There  was  an  evident  will  in  the  de- 
termined and  perfectly  proportioned  chin.  The 
nose  was  small  but  admirably  straight  and  set 
very  close  above  the  mouth.  Only  her  large  blue 
eyes  seemed  a  little  out  of  proportion,  but  these 
suggested  a  warm  sympathy  which  the  smallness 
of  her  features  might  otherwise  have  concealed. 
Her  head,  balanced  attractively  on  straight  white 
shoulders,  was  covered  gloriously,  if  a  little  thinly, 
with  hair  of  a  light  gold,  an  indescribable  tint 
not  often  encountered  outside  the  world  of  books. 
But  such,  in  fact,  was  Margery's  hair.  Her  skin 
also  was  of  a  colour  and  texture  not  to  be  painted 
in  words  —  it  had  that  indefinable  quality  for 
which  there  has  been  discovered  no  better  name 
than  transparent.  And  this  pale,  almost  colour- 
less quality  of  complexion  completed  the  effect  of 
fragility,  of  physical  refinement. 

It  was  still  and  sultry  in  St.  Peter's  Square. 
[72] 


The  House  by  the  River 

The  old  moon  hung  above  the  church  and  lit  up 
the  ridiculous  stone  eagles  on  the  decayed  and 
pompous  houses  on  Margery's  right.  "  Like  lec- 
terns," she  thought,  for  the  thousandth  time. 

The  houses  were  square  and  semi-detached,  two 
in  one;  a  life-size  eagle  perched  over  every  porch, 
its  neck  screwed  tragically  towards  its  sister-eagle 
craning  sympathetically  on  the  neighbouring 
porch,  seeking  apparently  for  ever  a  never-to-be- 
attained  communion.  What  sort  of  people  lived 
there,  Margery  wondered,  and  why?  So  far  from 
town  and  no  view  of  the  river,  no  special  attrac- 
tion. The  people  of  The  Chase  always  wondered 
in  this  way  as  they  walked  through  St.  Peter's 
Square.  The  problems  of  who  lived  in  it  and 
why  were  permanently  insoluble  since  nobody  who 
lived  in  The  Chase  knew  anybody  who  lived  in 
the  Square.  They  knew  each  other,  and  that 
was  enough.  They  knew  it  was  worth  while  trav- 
elling a  long  way  if  you  lived  in  The  Chase,  be- 
cause of  the  river,  the  views,  the  openness,  and 
the  fine  old  rambling,  rickety  houses.  But  why 
should  any  one  live  in  an  inland  square  with  eagles 
over  the  front  doors? 

Margery  did  not  know.  And  she  had  other 
things  to  think  of.  Tomorrow  she  must  speak 
seriously  to  Emily.  Emily,  like  all  these  young 
women,  had  started  excellently,  but  was  becoming 
slack.  And  impertinent,  sometimes.  But  one 

[73] 


The  House  by  the  River 

must  be  careful.  Just  now  was  not  the  time  to 
frighten  her  away.  Then  Trueman's  man  was 
coming  for  the  curtains  in  the  morning;  they  must 
be  got  ready.  And  there  was  a  mountain  of 
needlework  to  be  done.  And  she  must  run 
through  Stephen's  clothes  again  —  before  she  was 
too  ill  for  it.  Only  a  month  more  now,  perhaps 
less.  That  was  a  blessing.  She  was  not  fright- 
ened this  time  —  not  like  the  first  time,  with  little 
Joan  —  that  had  been  rather  terrifying  —  not 
knowing  quite  what  it  was  like.  But  it  was  a  long, 
interminable  business;  for  such  ages,  it  seemed, 
you  had  to  "  be  careful,"  not  play  tennis,  or  go  out 
to  dinner  just  when  you  wanted  to.  You  felt  a 
fool  sometimes,  inventing  reasons  for  not  doing 
things,  when  of  course  there  was  only  one  reason. 
And  so  ugly  —  especially  in  London  .  .  .  going 
about  in  shops  .  .  .  and  Tubes. 

Never  mind.  It  was  worth  it.  And  after- 
wards .  .  . 

Margery  cast  her  mind  deliciously  forward  to 
that  u  afterwards."  They  would  all  go  away 
somewhere,  her  dear  Stephen  and  Joan  and  a 
new  and  adorable  little  Stephen.  She  was  de- 
termined that  it  should  be  a  boy  this  time.  That 
was  what  Stephen  wanted,  and  what  he  wanted, 
within  reason,  he  should  have.  He  deserved  it, 
the  dear  man.  Really,  he  was  becoming  an  amaz- 
ingly perfect  husband.  Becoming,  yes  —  for 

[74] 


The  House  by  the  River 

just  at  first  he  had  been  difficult.  But  that  was 
during  the  war;  they  had  seen  so  little  of  each 
other  —  and  he  was  always  worried,  overworked. 
But  now  they  had  really  "  settled  down,"  the  hor- 
rid war  was  done  with,  and  he  had  been  too  won- 
derfully delightful  and  nice  to  her.  Lately 
especially.  Much  more  considerate  and  helpful 
and  —  and,  yes,  demonstrative.  She  felt  more 
sure  of  him.  She  was  appalled,  sometimes,  to 
think  how  essential  he  was  to  her,  how  fright- 
fully dependent  she  had  become  on  the  existence 
of  this  one  man,  met  quite  by  chance,  or  what  was 
called  chance,  at  somebody  else's  house.  If  any- 
thing should  happen  now  —  Even  the  children 
would  be  a  poor  consolation. 

But  nothing  would  happen.  He  would  go  on 
being  more  and  more  delicious  and  successful;  she 
would  go  on  being  happy  and  proud,  watching 
eagerly  the  maturement  of  her  ambitions  for  him. 
Even  now  she  was  intensely  proud  of  him  — 
though,  of  course,  it  would  never  do  to  let  him 
suspect  it. 

It  was  an  astounding  thing,  this  literary 
triumph.  Secretly,  she  admitted,  she  had  never 
had  enormous  faith  in  his  poetical  powers.  She 
had  liked  his  work  because  it  was  his.  And  being 
the  daughter  of  a  mildly  literary  man,  she  had  de- 
veloped a  serious  critical  faculty  capable  of  gener- 
ously appraising  any  artistic  effort  of  real  sin- 

[75] 


The  House  by  the  River 

cerity  and  promise.  But  she  had  seldom  thought 
of  Stephen's  poetry  in  terms  of  the  market,  of 
public  favour  and  material  reward.  Certainly 
she  had  not  married  him  as  "  a  poet  "  or  even  "  a 
writer."  But  that  only  made  his  meteoric  success 
more  dazzling  and  delightful.  Sometimes  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  realize,  she  found,  that  this 
young  man  she  had  married  was  the  same  Stephen 
Byrne  whose  name  was  everywhere  —  on  the 
bookstalls,  in  the  publishers'  advertisements,  in 
literary  articles  in  any  paper  you  picked  up;  that 
all  over  the  country  men  and  women  were  buying 
and  reading  and  re-reading  and  quoting  and  dis- 
cussing bits  of  poetry  which  her  husband  had 
scribbled  down  on  odd  bits  of  paper  at  her  own 
house.  It  was  astounding.  Margery  was  pass- 
ing the  small  houses  at  the  end  of  the  Square,  the 
homes  of  clerks  and  shop-people  and  superior  ar- 
tisans. She  glanced  at  a  group  of  wives,  garru- 
lously taking  the  air  at  a  doorway,  and  almost 
pitied  them  because  their  husbands'  names  were 
never  before  the  public.  It  seemed  awful,  now, 
to  be  absolutely  obscure. 

No.  She  didn't  think  that  really.  After  all, 
it  was  an  "  extra,"  this  fame.  It  had  nothing  to 
do  with  her  marrying  Stephen;  it  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  her  happiness  with  Stephen. 
It  was  a  kind  of  matrimonial  windfall.  What 
really  mattered  was  Stephen  himself,  and  Mar- 

[76] 


The  House  by  the  River 

gery  herself,  and  the  way  in  which  they  fitted 
together.  What,  she  really  —  yes,  adored  — 
there  was  no  other  word  —  was  himself,  his  black 
hair  and  his  twinkling  smile,  his  laugh  and  jolli- 
ness  and  funny  little  ways.  And  his  character. 
That,  of  course,  was  the  foundation  of  it  all. 
A  dear  and  excellent  character.  Other  men,  even 
the  best  of  them,  did  horrid  things  sometimes. 
Stephen,  she  knew,  with  all  his  faults  —  a  little 
selfish,  perhaps  —  conceited?  no,  but  self-cen- 
tred, rather  —  would  never  do  anything  mean  or 
degrading  or  treacherous.  She  could  trust  him 
absolutely.  He  would  certainly  never  disgrace 
her  as  some  men  did  disgrace  their  wives  — 
women,  drink,  and  so  on.  "  The  soul  of  honour  " 
—  that  was  the  phrase.  .  .  .  That,  again,  was 
a  marvellous  piece  of  fortune,  that  out  of  a  world 
of  peccant  questionable  men  she  should  have  been 
allowed  to  appropriate  a  man  like  Stephen,  so 
nearly  perfect  and  secure.  No  wonder  she  had 
this  consuming,  this  frightening  sense  of  ado- 
ration, sometimes.  But  she  tried  to  suppress 
that.  It  was  dangerous.  "  Thou  shalt  not  bow 
down  .  .  ." 

Margery  smiled  secretly  and  turned  her  latch- 
key in  the  lock. 

In  the  hall  she  noticed  immediately  Stephen's 
hat  on  the  peg,  and  was  glad  that  he  was  home. 
She  walked  through  with  her  letters  to  the  gar- 


The  House  by  the  River 

den,  and  looked  out  over  the  wall.  The  boat 
was  gone,  and  she  was  faintly  disappointed.  Far 
down  the  river  she  fancied  she  saw  it,  a  dirty 
whiteness,  and  resisted  an  impulse  to  call  to 
Stephen.  It  must  be  nice  on  the  river  tonight. 
The  rabbits  rustled  stealthily  in  the  corner;  a 
faint  unpleasant  smell  hung  about  their  home. 
She  looked  absently  "at  the  rabbit  Paul,  his  nose 
twitching  endlessly  in  the  moonlight,  and  went  in 
to  bed. 

When  she  had  undressed  she  leaned  for  a  long 
time  out  of  the  high  window  looking  at  the  night. 
Across  the  river  lay  the  broad  reservoirs  of  the 
water  company,  and  the  first  houses  were  half  a 
mile  away;  so  that  from  the  window  on  a  night 
like  this  you  looked  over  seemingly  endless 
stretches  of  gleaming  water;  strangers  coming 
there  at  night-time  wondered  at  the  wide  spa- 
ciousness of  this  obscure  corner  of  London.  You 
could  imagine  yourself  easily  in  some  Oriental 
city.  Hammersmith  and  Chiswick  and  Barnes 
wore  a  romantic  coat  of  shadow  and  silver.  The 
carved  reflections  of  the  small  trees  on  the  other 
bank  were  so  nearly  like  reflected  rows  of  palms. 
The  far-off  outline  of  factories  against  the  sky 
had  the  awe  and  mystery  of  mosques.  In  the 
remote  murmur  of  London  traffic  there  was  the 
note,  at  once  lazy  and  sinister,  treacherous  and 
reposeful,  of  an  Eastern  town.  And  now  when 
[78] 


The  House  by  the  River 

no  tugs  went  by  and  nothing  stirred,  the  silent 
river,  rushing  smoothly  into  the  black  heart  of 
London,  had  for  Margery  something  of  the 
sombre  majesty  of  the  Nile,  hinting  at  dark  un- 
nameable  things,  passion  and  death  and  furtive 
cruelties,  and  all  that  sense  of  secrecy  and  crime 
which  clings  to  the  river-side  of  great  cities,  the 
world  over. 

Margery  wondered  idly  how  much  of  all  that 
talk  about  the  Thames  was  true;  whether  horrible 
things  were  still  done  secretly  beside  her  beloved 
river,  hidden  and  condoned  by  the  river,  carried 
away  to  the  sea.  .  .  .  Down  in  the  docks,  no 
doubt.  .  .  .  Wapping  and  so  on. 

The  prosaic  thumping  of  a  tug  broke  the  spell 
of  Margery's  imagination.  She  looked  up  and 
down  for  Stephen's  boat,  a  faint  crossness  in  her 
mind  because  of  his  lateness.  She  got  into  bed. 
She  was  sleepy,  but  she  would  read  and  doze  a 
little  till  he  came  in. 

She  woke  first  drowsily  to  the  hollow  sound  of 
oars  clattering  in  a  boat,  a  murmur  of  low  voices 
and  subdued  splashings  .  .  .  Stephen  mooring 
the  boat  .  .  .  how  late  he  was. 

A  long  while  afterwards,  it  seemed,  she  woke 
again:  Stephen  was  creaking  cautiously  up  the 
stairs.  She  felt  that  he  was  peeping  at  her  round 
the  door,  murmured  sleepily,  "  How  late  you 
are,"  dimly  comprehended  his  soft  excuses  .  .  . 

[79] 


The  House  by  the  River 

something  about  the  tide  .  .  .  caught  by  the 
tide  .  .  .  engine  went  wrong  ...  of  course 
.  .  .  always  did  .  .  .  raised  her  head  with  a  vast 
effort  to  be  kissed  ...  a  very  delicate  and  rever- 
ent kiss  .  .  .  remembered  to  ask  if  Cook  was 
back  .  .  .  mustn't  lock  the  front  door  .  .  .  half 
heard  a  deep  "  Good  night,  my  darling,  go  to 
sleep "...  and  drifted  luxuriously  to  sleep 
again,  to  comfortable  dreams  of  Stephen,  dreams 
of  babies  .  .  .  moonlight  .  .  .  especial  editions 
.  .  .  palm  trees  and  water  —  peaceful,  silvery 
water. 

Long  afterwards  there  was  a  distant  fretful 
interruption,  hardly  heeded.  A  stir  outside. 
Cook's  voice  .  .  .  Stephen's  voice  .  .  .  some- 
thing about  Emily.  Emily  Gaunt  .  .  .  not  come 
home  .  .  .  must  speak  seriously  to  Emily  tomor- 
row .  .  .  can't  be  bothered  now.  Stephen  see 
to  it  ...  Stephen  and  Cook.  Cook's  voice, 
raucous.  Cook's  night  out  .  .  .  late  ...  go  to 
bed,  Cook  ...  go  to  bed  ...  go  to  bed,  ev- 
erybody .  .  .  all's  well. 

Stephen  turned  out  the  light  and  crept  away  to 
the  little  room  behind,  thanking  God  for  the 
fortunate  sleepiness  of  his  wife.  The  dreaded 
moment  had  passed. 

He  sat  down  wearily  on  the  bed  and  tried  to  re- 
duce the  whirling  tangle  in  his  brain  to  order. 

[80] 


The  House  by  the  River 

He  ought,  of  course,  to  be  thinking  things  out, 
planning  precautions,  explanations,  studied  ignor- 
ances. But  he  was  too  muddled,  too  tired.  God, 
how  tired!  Lugging  that  hateful  sack  about. 
And  that  awful  row  home  —  more  than  a  mile 
against  the  tide,  though  John  had  done  most  of 
that,  good  old  John.  .  .  .  (There  was  some- 
thing disturbing  he  had  said  to  John,  when  they 
parted  at  last  —  what  the  devil  was  it?  ...  some- 
thing had  slipped  out.  .  .  .  An  intangible,  un- 
easy memory  prodded  him  somewhere  ...  no 
matter.)  And  then  when  he  did  get  back,  what 
a  time  he  had  had  in  the  scullery,  tidying  the 
refuse  on  the  floor,  groping  about  under  a  table 
.  .  .  hundreds  of  pieces  of  paper,  grease-paper, 
newspaper,  paper  bags,  orange  skins,  old  tins,  bot- 
tles. .  .  .  He  had  gathered  them  all  and  put 
them  in  a  bucket,  a  greasy  bucket,  with  tea-leaves 
at  the  bottom  .  .  .  carried  it  down  to  the  river 
on  tiptoe  .  .  .  four  journeys.  God,  what  a 
night ! 

But  it  was  over  now  —  it  was  over  —  that 
part  of  it.  All  that  was  wanted  now  was  a 
straight  face,  a  little  acting,  and  some  straight- 
forward lying.  "  God  knows,  I  can  lie  all  right," 
Stephen  thought,  "  though  nobody  knows  it." 
What  lie  was  it  he  had  invented  about  the  sack, 
tired  as  he  was  ?  Oh  yes,  that  John  had  borrowed 
it,  and  that  John  had  first  emptied  the  rubbish 


The  House  by  the  River 

into  the  river.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  had  coached  John 
on  the  steps  about  that  .  .  .  told  him  to  keep  it 
up  if  necessary.  Old  John  had  looked  funny 
when  he  said  that.  John  didn't  like  lies,  even 
necessary  ones.  A  bit  of  a  prig,  old  John. 

Stephen  pulled  at  the  bow  of  his  black  tie  and 
fumbled  at  the  stud.  He  took  off  one  sock  and 
scratched  his  ankle  reflectively.  It  was  a  pity 
about  John.  He  was  such  a  good  fellow,  really, 
such  a  good  friend.  He  had  helped  him  splen- 
didly tonight,  invaluable.  But  God  knew  what 
he  felt  about  it  all.  .  .  .  Shocked,  of  course. 
.  .  .  Flabbergasted  (whatever  that  meant). 
The  question  was,  how  would  he  get  over  the 
shock?  How  would  he  feel  when  he  woke  up? 
Would  he  be  permanently  shocked,  stop  being 
friends?  .  .  .  He  was  a  friend  worth  keeping, 
old  John.  And  his  opinion  was  worth  having,  his 
respect.  Anyhow,  it  was  going  to  be  awkward. 
One  would  always  feel  a  bit  mean  and  ashamed 
now  with  John  —  in  the  wrong,  somehow.  .  .  . 
Stephen  hated  to  feel  in  the  wrong. 

Cook  lumbered  breathlessly  up  the  stairs,  and 
halted  with  a  loud  sigh  on  the  landing*.  She 
knocked  delicately  on  Mrs.  Byrne's  door  and 
threw  out  a  tentative,  "If  you  please,  mum." 
Stephen  went  out.  The  acting  must  begin. 

"  What  is  it,  Mrs.  Beach  —  speak  low  —  Mrs. 
Byrne's  asleep." 
[82] 


The  House  by  the  River 

"  It's  Emily,  sir,  if  you  please,  sir,  turned  half- 
past  eleven  now,  sir,  and  she's  not  in  the  house. 
I  didn't  speak  before,  sir,  thinking  she  might  have 
slipped  out  like  for  a  bit  of  a  turn  and  met  a 
friend  like.  She  weren't  in  the  kitchen,  sir,  when 
I  come  in,  nor  in  the  bedroom  neither.  I  thought 
perhaps  as  how  you'd  seen  her,  sir,  when  you  come 
in  and  sent  her  on  a  herrand  like.  What  had  I 
best  do  sir  shall  I  lock  up  sir  it's  late  for  a  young 
girl  and  gone  out  without  her  mack  too." 

Mrs.  Beach  concluded  her  remarks  with  a  long, 
unpunctuated  peroration  as  if  fearful  that  her 
scanty  wind  should  fail  altogether  before  she  had 
fully  delivered  herself. 

Stephen  thought  rapidly.  Had  he  sent  Emily 
out  on  a  "  herrand,"  or  had  he  not  seen  her  at 
all? 

He  said,  "No,  Mrs.  Beach,  I  didn't  see  her; 
I  went  straight  out  on  to  the  river.  No  doubt 
she  went  out  for  a  little  walk  and  met  a  friend, 
as  you  say.  She'll  be  back  soon,  no  doubt,  and 
I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  let  her  in  ...  very 
naughty  of  her  to  stay  out  so  late.  Nothing  to 
be  done,  I  fear.  Good  night,  Mrs.  Beach." 

Mrs.  Beach  caught  sympathetically  at  Stephen's 
meaning  suggestion  of  Emily's  naughtiness. 
"Good  night,  sir,"  she  puffed;  "she  always  was 
a  one  for  the  young  men,  though  I  says  it  myself, 
but  there  youth  will  'ave  its  fling,  they  say,  and 

[83] 


The  House  by  the  River 

sorry  I  am  to  disturb  you,  sir,  but  I  thought  as 
I'd  best  speak,  it  was  that  late,  sir." 

"  Quite  right,  Mrs.  Beach.     Good  night." 

"  Good  night,  sir." 

Mrs.  Beach  sighed  herself  ponderously  down 
the  dark  stairs.  Stephen  went  back  into  his  room 
with  a  startling  sense  of  elation.  He  had  done 
that  well.  It  would  be  marvellously  easy  if  it 
was  all  like  that.  That  word  "  naughty  "  had 
been  a  masterpiece;  he  was  proud  of  it.  Already 
he  had  set  moving  a  plausible  explanation  of  Em- 
ily's disappearance  —  Emily's  frailty  —  Emily's 
"  friend."  Cook  would  do  the  rest.  Mentally 
he  chuckled. 

Suddenly  then  he  appreciated  the  vileness  on 
which  he  was  congratulating  himself,  and  the 
earlier  blackness  settled  upon  him.  Something 
like  conscience,  something  like  remorse,  had  room 
to  stir  in  place  of  his  abated  fears.  It  was  going 
to  be  a  wretched  business,  this  "easy  "  lying  and 
hypocrisy  and  deceit  —  endless  stretches  of  wick- 
edness seemed  to  open  out  before  him.  What  a 
mess  it  was!  How  the  devil  had  it  happened  — 
to  him,  Stephen  Byrne,  the  reputed,  respectable 
young  author? 

Suddenly  —  like  the  lights  fusing  .  .  .  What, 
in  Heaven's  name,  had  made  hi-m  do  it?  Emily 
Gaunt,  of  all  people.  .  .  .  Curse  Emily!  He 
wasted  no  pity  on  her,  no  sentimental  sorrow  for 

[84] 


The  House  by  the  River 

the  wiping  out  of  a  warm  young  life.  Emily  had 
brought  it  on  herself,  the  little  fool.  It  was  her 
fault  —  really.  .  .  .  Stephen  was  too  self-cen- 
tred to  be  gravely  disturbed  by  thoughts  of  Em- 
ily, except  so  far  as  she  was  likely  to  affect  his 
future  peace  of  mind.  And  he  had  seen  too 
much  of  death  in  the  war  to  be  much  distressed 
by  the  fact  of  death.  His  inchoate  remorse  was 
more  of  a  protest  than  a  genuine  regret  for 
wrong — a  protest  against  the  wounding  of  self- 
respect,  against  the  coming  worries  and  anxieties 
and  necessary  evasions,  and  all  the  foreseen  un- 
pleasantness which  this  damnable  night  had 
forced  upon  him.  It  must  not  happen  again,  this 
kind  of  thing.  Too  upsetting.  Stephen  began 
to  make  fierce  resolutions,  as  sincere  as  any  reso- 
lutions can  be  that  rest  on  such  unsubstantial 
foundations.  He  was  going  to  be  a  better  fellow 
in  future  —  a  better  husband.  .  .  .  People 
thought  a  lot  of  him  at  present  —  and  they  were 
deceived.  In  future  he  would  live  up  grandly  to 
"  people's  "  conception  of  him,  to  Margery's  con- 
ception of  him. 

When  he  thought  of  Margery  he  was  suddenly 
and  intensely  ashamed.  That  aspect  of  his  con- 
duct he  had  so  far  managed  to  ignore.  Now  he 
became  suddenly  hot  at  the  thought  of  it.  He 
had  behaved  damnably  to  Margery.  Supposing 
she  had  come  back  earlier,  discovered  Emily. 

[85] 


The  House  by  the  River 

"A  —  a  —  ah !  "  A  strangled  exclamation  burst 
from  him,  as  men  groan  in  spite  of  themselves  at 
some  story  of  brutality  or  pain.  Sweat  stood 
about  his  temples.  Poor  Margery,  so  patient 
and  loving  and  trustful.  What  a  swine  he  had 
been !  The  resolutions  swelled  enormously  .  .  . 
no  more  drinking  .  .  .  the  drink  had  done  it  ... 
he  would  knock  it  off  altogether.  No,  not  alto- 
gether —  that  was  silly,  unnecessary.  In  moder- 
ation. He  slipped  his  trousers  to  the  floor. 

Margery  thought  too  much  of  him,  believed  in 
him  too  well.  It  was  terrible,  in  a  way,  being  an 
idol;  life  would  be  easier  if  one  had  a  bad  reputa- 
tion, even  an  ordinary  "  man-of-the-world  "  repu- 
tation. A  character  of  moral  perfection  was  a 
heavy  burden,  if  you  were  not  genuinely  equal 
to  it.  Never  mind,  in  future,  he  would  be  equal 
to  it;  he  would  be  perfect.  Tender  and  chival- 
rous thoughts  of  Margery  invaded  him;  the  reso- 
lutions surged  wildly  up,  an  almost  religious  emo- 
tion glowed  warmly  inside  him;  he  felt  some- 
how as  he  used  to  feel  at  Communion,  walking 
back  to  his  seat.  He  used  to  pray  in  those 
days,  properly.  .  .  .  He  felt  like  praying 
now. 

He  tied  the  string  of  his  pyjamas  and  knelt 
down  by  the  small  bed.  It  was  a  long  time  since 
he  had  prayed.  During  the  war,  in  tight  corners, 
when  he  had  been  terribly  afraid,  he  had  prayed 
[86] 


The  House  by  the  River 

—  the  sick,  emergency  supplications  of  all  sol- 
diers —  the  "  O  God,  get  me  out  of  this  and  I 
will  be  good  "  kind  of  prayer.  The  padres  used 
to  preach  sermons  about  such  prayers,  and  some- 
times Stephen  had  determined  to  pray  always  at 
the  safe  times  as  well  as  the  dangerous,  but  this 
had  never  lasted  for  long.  Now  his  prayers  were 
on  the  same  note,  wrung  out  of  him  like  his  reso- 
lutions by  the  urgent  emotions  of  the  moment,  sin- 
cere but  bodiless. 

He  prayed,  "  O  God,  I  have  been  a  fool  and  a 
swine.  O  God,  forgive  me  for  this  night's 
work  and  get  me  out  of  the  mess  safely,  and  I 
will  —  I  will  be  good."  That  was  the  only  way 
of  expressing  it  — "  being  good,"  like  a  child. 
"  In  future  I  will  be  a  better  man  and  pray  more 
often.  O  God,  keep  this  from  Margery,  for  her 
sake,  not  mine.  O  God,  forgive  me,  and  make 
me  better.  Amen." 

Stephen  rose  from  his  knees,  a  little  relieved, 
but  with  an  uncomfortable  sense  of  bargaining. 
It  was  difficult  to  pray  without  driving  a  bargain, 
somehow  .  .  .  like  some  of  those  wretched 
hymns : 

"  And  when  I  see  Thee  as  Thou  art 
I'll  praise  Thee  as  I  ought," 

for  instance,  a  close,  inescapable  contract.  The 
old  tune  sang  in  his  head.  But  if  one  prayed 

[87] 


The  House  by  the  River 

properly,  no  doubt  one  learned  to  exclude  that 
commercial  flavour. —  How  hot  it  was! 

He  turned  out  the  light  and  crept  clowly  under 
the  sheets.  For  a  long  time  he  lay  staring  at  the 
dark,  thinking  now  of  Emily's  night-dress.  .  .  . 
Probably  it  was  marked  —  in  neat  red  letters  — 
Emily  Gaunt.  Probably  the  sacking  would  wear 
away  where  the  rope  went  through  it,  dragging 
with  the  tide.  Probably  .  .  .  Hideous  possi- 
bilities crowded  back  and  gloom  returned  to  him. 
And  what  was  it  he  had  said  to  John?  He  had 
forgotten  about  that.  Something  sillly  had 
slipped  out,  when  John  had  looked  so  shocked, 
something  intended  to  soothe  John's  terrible  con- 
science, something  about  "  doing  the  right  thing 
afterwards  " —  after  the  baby  had  safely  come. 
"  I'll  put  things  right  then,"  he  remembered  say- 
ing. What  the  devil  had  he  meant  by  that? 
What  did  John  think  he  had  meant?  Hell! 

Stephen  threw  off  the  blanket;  he  was  sweat- 
ing again. 

When  the  cold  chime  of  St.  Peter's  struck 
three  he  lay  still  maddeningly  awake  in  a  feverish 
muddle  of  thought.  Then  at  last  he  slept,  dream- 
ing wildly. 

Emily  Gaunt  shifted  uneasily  in  her  oozy  bed, 
tugging  at  her  anchor,  as  the  tide  rolled  down. 


[88] 


EVERY  misfortune  which  can  happen  to  a 
man  who  travels  Underground  in  Lon- 
don had  happened  to  John  Egerton. 
.Worn  and  irritable  with  a  sultry  day  at  the 
Ministry  he  had  jostled  with  a  shuffling  multitude 
on  to  the  airless  platform  at  Charing  Cross. 
From  near  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  he  saw  that 
an  Ealing  train  was  already  in;  more  important, 
the  train  was  stopping  at  Stamford  Brook. 
Stamford  Brook  was  a  "  non-stop  station,"  so  that 
if  you  missed  your  train  in  the  busy  hours  you 
might  wait  for  an  intolerable  time.  On  this 
sweltering  evening  it  was  urgent  to  escape  as 
quickly  as  possible  from  the  maddening  crowd  of 
sticky  citizens  and  simpering  girls.  It  was  urgent 
to  catch  that  train.  Already  they  were  slam- 
ming home  the  doors.  John  made  a  nightmare 
attempt  to  hurry  down  the  last  few  steps  and 
across  to  that  train.  His  way  was  blocked  by  a 
mob  of  deliberate  backs,  unaccountably  indiffer- 
ent to  the  departure  of  the  Ealing  train,  and 
moving  with  exasperating  slowness.  John,  with 
mumbled  and  insincere  apologies,  dived  through 
the  narrow  alley  between  a  portly  man  and  a 

[89] 


The  House  by  the  River 

portly  woman.  Whistles  were  blowing  now,  but 
once  down  the  stairs  the  way  would  be  fairly 
clear  to  the  desirable  train.  Only  round  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  hovered  a  bewildered  family,  a  shoal 
of  small  children  clinging  to  their  expansive 
mother  and  meagre  sire,  wondering  stupidly  what 
they  ought  to  do  next  in  this  strange  muddle  of  a 
place.  They  were  back  from  some  country  jaunt 
and  bristled  with  mackintoshes  and  small  chairs 
and  parcels  and  spades  and  other  impassable  ex- 
crescences. 

John  governed  himself  and  said,  "  Excuse  me, 
please,"  with  a  difficult  assumption  of  calm. 
None  of  them  moved.  John  longed  to  seize  the 
little  idiots  by  the  throat  and  fling  them  aside,  to 
knock  down  the  meagre  man  and  trample  upon 
him.  Instead,  he  shouted  aggressively,  "  Let  me 
pass,  please!" — the  train  was  moving  now. 
The  large  woman  looked  back,  with  a  frightened 
air,  shot  out  an  arm  with  a  sharp  "  Mabel!  "  and 
plucked  her  first-born  daughter  aside  by  the  flesh 
of  her  arm  pinched  painfully  between  finger  and 
thumb.  The  child  screeched,  but  the  way  was 
clear,  and  John  flung  forward.  An  open  door 
was  moving  almost  opposite  him;  he  had  only  to 
swing  himself  in.  Then  from  -nowhere  appeared 
a  youthful  uniformed  official,  who  barred  the  way 
with  an  infuriating  aspect  of  authority,  and 
slammed  fast  the  receding  door.  The  train  slid 
[90] 


The  House  by  the  River 

clattering  past  and  vanished  with  a  parting  flicker 
of  blue  flashes.  The  boy  walked  off  with  an 
Olympian  and  incorruptible  air,  not  looking  at 
John,  as  who  should  say,  "  Tamper  not  with  me." 
Interfering  ass !  John  had  an  impulse  to  go  after 
and  abuse  him,  demonstrate  with  fierce  argument 
the  folly  of  the  youth.  The  waiting  crowd  ob- 
served him  with  the  heartless  amusement  of 
crowds,  hoping  secretly  that  he  would  lose  his 
temper,  provide  entertainment.  John  saw  them 
and  controlled  himself,  thinking  with  a  conscien- 
tious effort,  "  His  duty,  I  suppose,"  and  con- 
tented himself  with  a  long  glower  at  the  obstruc- 
tive family. 

The  next  train  was  a  Wimbledon  one;  the  next 
an  Inner  Circle;  the  next  a  Richmond,  not  stop- 
ping at  Stamford  Brook.  The  endless  people 
shuffled  always  down  the  stairs,  drifted  aimlessly 
along  the  platform,  jostled  and  barged  good- 
humouredly  about  the  teeming  trains.  Govern- 
ment flappers  congregated  giggling  in  small 
groups,  furtively  examined  by  ambulant  young 
men.  In  spite  of  the  heat  and  the  stuffy  smell 
of  humanity  and  the  exasperation  of  crowded 
travelling  there  was  a  pleasant  atmosphere  of 
contentment  and  goodwill.  Only  here  and  there 
were  the  fretful  and  distressed,  mainly  country- 
folk, unaccustomed  to  the  hardships  of  London. 
Tonight  the  equable  John  was  among  these  petu- 

[90 


The  House  by  the  River 

lant  ones,  which  was  unusual.  He  was  worried 
and  depressed  —  in  no  mood  for  a  prolonged  en- 
tanglement with  a  hot  crowd.  Never  had  he 
waited  so  long.  Number  i  on  the  indicator  now 
was  a  Putney  train;  Number  2  another  Inner  Cir- 
cle —  what  the  devil  did  they  want  with  so  many 
Circle  trains?  And  why  was  Stamford  Brook  a 
non-stop  station?  Hundreds  of  people  used  it 
—  far  more  than  Sloane  Square,  for  example,  or 
St.  James'  Park.  He  would  write  a  letter  to  the 
Company  about  these  things.  The  terms  of  his 
letter  began  to  frarhe  themselves  in  his  mind  — 
conceived  in  the  best  Civil  Service  style:  "  It  is 
evident  .  .  .  convenience  of  greatest  number  of 
passengers  .  .  .  revised  program  .  .  .  facilities 
.  .  .  volume  of  traffic  .  .  ."  The  Putney  train 
racketed  away;  Number  2  was  an  Ealing  now. 
John  edged  up  to  the  glaring  bookstall  and  stood 
with  a  row  of  men  staring  idly  at  the  dusty  covers 
of  old  sevenpennies  —  price  two  shillings.  None 
of  these  men  bought  anything,  only  stood  silent 
and  gazed,  as  if  in  wonder  at  such  a  multitude 
of  unbuyable  books.  On  the  cover  of  one  of 
them — Three  Years  with  the  Hapsburgs:  the 
Thrilling  Chronicle  of  an  English  Governess  — 
the  gaudy  picture  of  a  young  woman  caught  his 
eye.  It  reminded  him  somehow  of  Emily  Gaunt, 
and  he  turned  away.  He  did  not  want  to  be  re- 
minded of  Emily. 

[92] 


The  House  by  the  River 

The  Ealing  train  came  in,  and  John  was  swept 
in  with  a  tight  mass  of  people  through  the  middle 
doors  of  a  smoking  carriage.  The  atmosphere 
was  a  suffocating  mixture  of  hot  breath  and  evil 
tobacco-smoke.  The  carriage  was  packed.  Men 
and  women  stood  jammed  together  like  trdops  in 
a  communication-trench.  Here  and  there  a  clerk 
stood  up  with  a  sheepish  mumble  and  a  sallow 
woman  sank  thankfully  into  his  seat.  John  stared 
with  increasing  resentment  at  the  rows  of  men 
who  did  not  get  up  —  tired  labourers  in  cordu- 
roy trousers  who  sat  on  in  unmoved  contentment, 
or  gross  men  with  cigars  who  screened  themselves 
behind  evening  papers,  pretending  they  did  not 
notice  the  standing  women. 

The  train  stopped,  and  there  was  a  fierce 
squeezing  and  struggling  at  the  doors.  A  man 
behind  John  remembered  suddenly  that  he  wanted 
to  get  out,  and  began  with  much  heaving  and  im- 
precation to  hew  a  passage,  treading  violently  on 
John's  ankle.  But  by  now  there  were  more  peo- 
ple surging  inwards,  clinging  precariously  to  the 
fringe  of  the  mob.  The  train  rushed  on,  and  the 
man  was  left  within  it,  cursing  feebly.  John  felt 
glad,  maliciously,  ridiculously  glad.  But  when 
he  looked  again  at  the  sedentary  gross  men,  the 
placid  labourers,  and  at  the  short,  pale  women 
swaying  in  the  centre  he  became  righteously  fu- 
rious with  the  evil  manners  of  the  men.  He  felt 

[93] 


The  House  by  the  River 

that  he  would  like  to  address  them,  curse  them 
about  it  —  that  fat  one  with  the  insolent  leer 
and  the  cap  all  cock-eye,  especially;  he  would 
say  loudly  at  the  next  station,  "  Why  don't  you 
give  one  of  these  ladies  your  seat?"  Then  the 
man  would  have  to  get  up,  would  stand  shamed 
before  the  world,  while  some  grateful  female  — 
that  nurse  there  —  took  his  seat.  Perhaps  all 
the  others  would  follow. 

Or  perhaps  it  would  happen  quite  differently. 
The  man  would  not  hear,  or  pretend  not  to  hear; 
and  he,  John,  would  have  to  repeat  his  remark, 
losing  greatly  in  dramatic  force.  And  every  one 
would  stare  at  him,  as  if  he  were  a  madman !  Or 
the  man  would  surrender  his  seat  with  a  sweet 
smile  and  an  apology,  "  Very  sorry,  I  didn't  see  "; 
and  then  the  fools  of  women  would  refuse  to  take 
the  seat.  They  would  all  say  they  were  getting 
out  at  the  next  station;  they  would  all  simper  and 
deprecate  and  behave  like  lunatics.  The  man 
would  hover  with  a  self-righteous,  ingratiating 
smirk  and  sit  down  again.  And  John  Egerton 
would  look  a  fool.  No  —  it  couldn't  be  done. 
What  cowards  men  were ! 

A  very  hot  and  spotty  man  breathed  disgust- 
ingly in  John's  face;  unable  to  move  his  body, 
he  turned  his  head  away  to  the  left.  On  that 
side  stood  a  robust  young  woman,  with  hatpins 
menacingly  projecting  from  a  red  straw  hat. 
[94] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Her  head  rocked  as  the  train  jolted :  the  cherries 
on  her  hat  bobbed  ridiculously,  the  naked  hatpin- 
points  swung  backwards  and  forwards  in  front 
of  John's  eye.  He  turned  back  to  the  disgusting 
breath  of  the  spotty  man. 

At  Earl's  Court  the  crowd  melted  a  little;  there 
were  no  seats,  but  there  was  room  to  breathe  — 
room  to  stand  by  oneself,  free  from  pressure  of 
strange  bodies.  At  Baron's  Court  he  crept  into 
a  seat.  At  Hammersmith  a  noisy  mob  of  shop- 
girls and  hobble-dehoys  surged  in,  and  he  surren- 
dered his  seat  to  a  young  woman,  who  was  munch- 
ing something.  She  sat  down  with  a  giggle  and 
took  her  sister  on  her  lap.  Together  they  eyed 
him,  with  whispered  jocularities.  Only  two  more 
stations. 

The  lights  were  o/it  now.  The  train  ran  out 
through  the  daylight  on  to  a  high  embankment, 
past  an  interminable  series  of  dingy  houses. 
There  was  more  air.  The  filthy  smoke  eddied 
out  of  the  narrow  windows.  The  train  rocked 
enormously  —  a  bad  piece  of  line.  Looking  down 
the  car  from  his  place  by  the  door,  John  saw 
through  the  haze  an  interminable  vista  of  uni- 
form right  hands  fiercely  clinging  to  uniform 
straps,  of  right  arms  uniformly  crooked,  of  bowed 
heads  uniformly  bent  over  evening  papers,  of 
endless  backs  uniformly  enduring  and  dull.  And 
as  the  train  gave  a  lurch,  all  the  elbows  swung 

[95] 


The  House  by  the  River 

out  together  towards  the  windows,  and  all  the 
bodies  bent  outward  like  willows  in  the  wind,  and 
all  the  heads  were  lifted  together  in  a  mute  and 
uniform  protest.  It  was  all  like  some  fantastic 
physical  drill.  Then  he  fell  into  the  weary  stupor 
of  the  habitual  Underground  traveller,  listening 
semiconsciously  to  the  insane  chatter  of  the  chuck- 
ling girls.  Ravenscourt  Park  shot  by  unnoticed. 
The  train  ran  on  for  ever. 

Stooping  suddenly,  he  saw  the  familiar  letters 
of  Stamford  Brook  dashing  past  at  an  astonishing 
speed.  Surely  —  surely  the  train  was  stopping. 
The  porters'  room  —  the  ticket  collector  —  the 
passenger-shelter  —  the  Safety  First  pictures  — 
the  advertisement  of  What  Ho !  —  the  other 
name-board  of  the  station  —  the  whole  station  — 
shot  maddeningly  past.  The  train  rushed  on  to 
the  intolerable  remoteness  of  Turnham  Green. 
Hell!  John  Egerton  uttered  an  audible  groan 
of  vexation.  Two  non-stop  trains  running!  It 
was  unpardonable.  He  had  not  even  thought  to 
look  at  the  non-stop  labels  on  the  train  at  Char- 
ing Cross*  It  was  too  bad.  Another  matter  for 
the  letter  to  the  Company!  The  women  looked 
at  his  scowling  face  and  giggled  again,  whispering 
behind  their  hands.  , 

From  Turnham  Green  you  might  walk  home; 
but  it  took  nearly  twenty  minutes.  Or  if  you  were 
lucky  you  caught  a  train  quickly  back  to  Stam- 

[96] 


The  House  by  the  River 

ford  Brook.  As  they  came  into  the  station,  John 
saw  an  up-train  gliding  off  on  the  other  side  of  the 
same  platform.  Of  course !  just  missed  it !  And 
no  doubt  the  next  one  would  decline  to  stop  at 
Stamford  Brook!  Once  you  began  having  bad 
luck  on  the  Underground  you  might  as  well  give 
up  all  hope  of  improving  it  that  day.  You  might 
as  well  walk.  He  would  walk.  But  how  dam- 
nable it  all  was ! 

He  waited  with  the  thick  crowd  at  the  ticket 
gate,  fumbling  for  his  ticket  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket.  That  was  where  he  had  put  it  —  he  al- 
ways did.  Always  in  the  same  place  —  as  a 
methodical  man  should  do.  But  it  was  not  there. 
It  was  not  in  the  other  waistcoat  pocket  —  nor  in 
his  right-hand  trouser  pocket.  "  Now,  then," 
said  an  aggressive  voice  behind,  and  he  stepped 
aside.  Lost  his  place  in  the  queue,  now !  He  put 
down  his  dispatch-case  and  felt  furiously  in  his 
pockets  with  both  hands.  The  passengers  dwin- 
dled down  the  stairs ;  he  was  left  alone,  regarded 
indifferently  by  the  bored  official.  This  was  a 
fitting  climax  to  an  abominable  journey. 

He  found  it  at  last,  lurking  in  the  flap  of  a 
tobacco-pouch,  and  because  he  had  come  too  far 
he  was  forced  to  pay  another  penny.  There  was 
a  preposterous  argument.  "  Putting  a  premium 
on  inconvenience  1  " 

He  walked  home  at  last,  cursing  foolishly,  and 

[97] 


The  House  by  the  River 

adding  new  periods  to  his  letter  to  the  Company. 
All  over  London  men  and  women  walked  back  to 
their  homes  that  evening  through  the  hot  streets, 
bitter  and  irritated  and  physically  distressed, 
ruminating  on  the  problem  of  over-population 
and  the  difficulties  of  movement  in  the  hub  of  the 
world  —  only  a  small  proportion,  it  is  true,  as 
bitter  and  irritated  as  John,  but  every  night  the 
same  proportion,  every  night  a  thousand  or  two. 
Historians,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  and  scientists  and 
statisticians,  when  they  write  up  their  estimates 
of  that  year,  will  not  fail  to  record  the  mental 
and  physical  fatigue,  the  waste  of  tissue  and 
nervous  energy,  imposed  upon  the  citizens  of  our 
great  Metropolis  by  the  simple  necessity  of  pro- 
ceeding daily  from  their  places  of  work  to  their 
places  of  residence.  Small  things,  these  irrita- 
tions, an  odd  penny  here,  an  odd  ten  minutes  there, 
the  difference  between  just  catching  and  just  miss- 
ing a  train,  the  difference  between  just  standing 
for  twenty  minutes,  and  just  sitting  down  —  but 
they  mounted  up!  They  mounted  up  into  vast 
excrescences  of  discourtesy  and  crossness;  they 
made  calm  and  equable  and  polite  persons  sud- 
denly and  amazingly  abrupt  and  unkind. 

John  Egerton  was  seldom  so  seriously  ruffled; 
but  then  it  was  seldom  that  so  peculiarly  unfortu- 
nate a  journey  concluded  so  peculiarly  painful  a 
day.  A  sticky  and  intolerable  day.  A  "  rushed  " 
[98] 


The  House  by  the  River 

and  ineffectual  day.  "  Things "  had  shown  a 
deliberate  perversity  at  the  office,  papers  had 
surprisingly  lost  themselves  and  thereafter 
surprisingly  discovered  themselves  at  the  most 
awkward  moments;  telephone  girls  had  been  pert, 
telephone  numbers  permanently  engaged.  The 
Board  of  Trade  had  behaved  execrably.  John's 
own  Minister  had  been  unusually  curt  —  jumpy. 

And  hovering  at  the  back  of  it  all,  a  kind  of 
master-irritation,  which  governed  and  stimulated 
every  other  one,  was  the  unpleasant  memory  of 
Emily  Gaunt. 

So  that  he  walked  down  the  Square  in  a  dark 
and  melancholy  temper.  And  Emily  Gaunt  met 
him  on  the  doorstep.  The  skinny  successor  of 
Emily  Gaunt  in  the  household  of  the  Byrnes 
stood  at  the  doorway  of  his  house,  talking  timidly 
to  Mrs.  Bantam.  She  had  come  for  u  some 
sack  or  other,"  Mrs.  Bantam  explained.  "  And 
there's  no  sack  in  this  house  —  that  I  will 
swear."  She  spoke  with  the  violent  emphasis 
of  all  Mrs.  Bantams,  as  if  the  presence  of  a  sack 
in  a  gentleman's  house  would  have  been  an 
almost  unspeakable  offence  against  chastity  and 
good  taste.  The  skinny  maid  turned  from  her 
with  relief  to  the  less  formidable  presence  of 
John. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  Cook  says  as  the  missus 
says  as  Mrs.  Byrne  says  as  —  as  "  —  the  skinny 

[99] 


The  House  by  the  River 

maid  faltered  in  this  interminable  forest  of 
"  as's  " — "  as  you  'as  the  big  sack  that  was  in  the 
scullery,  sir,  and  if  you've  done  with  it,  sir,  could 
we  'ave  it  back,  sir,  as  the  man's  come  for  the 
bottles?" 

The  sack!  Emily's  sack  I  John  had  no  need 
of  the  young  woman's  exposition.  He  remem- 
bered vividly.  He  remembered  now  what 
Stephen  had  said  about  it  —  in  the  boat  —  under 
the  wall.  John  had  "  borrowed  "  it.  He  remem- 
bered now.  But  what  the  devil  had  he  borrowed 
it  for  ?*  And  why  —  why  should  he  have  to  stand 
on  his  own  doorstep  this  terrible  day  and  invent 
lies  for  a  couple  of  women? 

And  what  had  the  man  coming  for  the  bottles 
to  do  with  it,  he  wondered? 

But  a  lie  must  be  invented  —  and  quickly.  He 
said,  "  Will  you  tell  Mrs.  Byrne,  I'm  very  sorry 
—  I  took  the  sack  out  in  my  boat  —  to  —  to 
collect  firewood  —  and  —  and  —  lost  it  —  over- 
board, you  know?  Tell  her  I'm  very  sorry,  will 
you,  and  I'll  get  her  another  sack?  "  He  tried  to 
smile  nicely  at  the  young  woman;  a  painful  smirk 
revealed  itself. 

"  Thank  you,  sir." 

The  young  woman  melted  away,  and  he  walked 
indoors,  feeling  sullied  and  ashamed.  He  hated 
telling  lies.  He  was  one  of  those  uncommon 
members  of  the  modern  world  who  genuinely  ob- 
[100] 


The  House  by  the  River 

ject  to  the  small  insincerities  of  daily  life,  lying 
excuses  over  the  telephone  for  not  going  out  to 
dinner,  manufactured  "  engagements,"  and  so  on. 
And  the  fact  that  this  lie  was  part  of  a  grand 
conspiracy  to  protect  a  man  from  an  indictment 
for  murder  did  not  commend  it.  On  the  contrary, 
it  enhanced  that  feeling  of  "  identification  "  with 
the  end  of  Emily  which  he  had  been  trying  for 
two  weeks  to  shake  off.  Oh,  it  was  damnable ! 

For  his  solitary  dinner  he  opened  a  bottle  of 
white  wine  —  a  rare  indulgence.  He  hoped 
earnestly  that  Mrs.  Bantam  would  be  less  com- 
municative than  usual.  Mrs.  Bantam  had  cooked 
and  kept  house  for  him  for  six  months.  She  was 
one  of  that  invaluable  body  of  semi-decayed  but 
capable  ,  middle-aged  females  who  move  through 
the  world  scorning  and  avoiding  the  company  of 
their  own  sex,  and  seeking  for  single  gentlemen 
with  households;  single  gentlemen  without  female 
encumbrances;  single  gentlemen  over  whom  they 
may  exercise  an  undisputed  dominion;  single  gen- 
tlemen who  want  "  looking  after,"  who  are  inca- 
pable of  ordering  their  own  food  or  "  seeing  to  " 
their  own  clothes,  who  would,  it  is  to  be  supposed, 
fade  helplessly  out  of  existence  but  for  the  con- 
stant comfort  and  support  of  their  superior  cook- 
housekeepers. 

Mrs.  Bantam  was  intensely  superior.  From 
what  far  heights  of  luxury  and  distinction  she  had 

[10!] 


The  House  by  the  River 

descended  to  the  obscure  kitchen  of  Island  Lodge 
could  be  dimly  apprehended  from  her  dignity  and 
her  vocabulary  and  an  occasional  allusive  passage 
in  her  conversation.  She  was  as  the  transmigrant 
soul  of  some  domestic  pig,  faintly  aware  of  a 
nobler  status  in  some  previous  existence.  Where 
or  what  that  existence  had  been  John  had  never 
discovered;  only  he  knew  that  it  was  noble,  and 
that  it  had  ended  abruptly  many  years  ago  with 
the  inconsiderate  decease  of  "  my  hubby." 

Mrs.  Bantam,  for  all  her  dignity,  was  scraggy, 
and  had  the  aspect  of  chronic  indigestion  and 
decay.  She  was  draped  for  ever  in  funereal  black, 
partly  in  memory  .of  hubby,  party,  no  doubt,  be- 
cause black  was  "  superior."  She  walked,  or 
rather  proceeded,  with  an  elegant  stoop,  her  head 
stuck  forward  like  an  investigating  hen,  her  long 
arms  hanging  straight  down  in  front  of  her  from 
her  stooping  shoulders  like  plumb-lines,  suspended 
from  a  leaning  tower.  Her  face  was  pinched  and 
marvellously  pale,  and  her  black  eyes  retreated 
into  unfathomable  recesses.  Her  chin  receded 
and  ended  suddenly  in  a  kind  of  fold,  from  which 
a  flabby  isthmus  of  skin  went  straight  to  the  base 
of  her  throat,  like  the  neck  of  a  fowl;  in  this  pre- 
carious envelope  an  Adam's  apple  of  operatic 
dimensions  moved  up  and  down  with  alarming 
velocity. 

Like  so  many  of  the  world's  greatest  person- 
[102] 


The  House  by  the  River 

alities,  she  had  a  noble  soul,  but  she  would  make 
speeches.  Her  intercourse  with  others  was  one 
long  oration.  And  she  was  too  urbane.  When 
she  laid  the  bacon  before  her  gentleman  of  the 
moment  as  he  gazed  moodily  at  his  morning  paper, 
she  would  ask  pardon  in  a  shrill  chirp,  like  the 
notes  of  a  superannuated  yodeller,  for  "  passing 
in  front "  of  him.  This  used  to  drive  John  as 
near  to  distraction  as  a  Civil  Servant  can  safely 
go.  And  though  she  had  watched  over  him  for 
six  months,  she  still  reminded  him  at  every  meal 
that  she  was  as  yet,  of  course,  ill-acquainted  with 
his  tastes,  and  therefore  unable  to  cater  for  those 
peculiar  whims  and  fancies  in  which  he  differed 
from  the  last  gentleman.  By  keeping  sedulously 
alive  this  glorious  myth  she  was  able  to  disdain 
all  responsibility  for  her  choice  and  treatment 
of  his  food. 

She  served  supper  now  with  an  injured  air,  and 
John  knew  that  she  must  be  allowed  to  talk  dur- 
ing the  whole  meal  instead  of  only  during  the  fish. 
She  always  talked  during  the  fish.  It  was  her 
ration.  For  she  was  lonely,  poor  thing,  brood- 
ing all  day  in  her  basement.  But  when  she  was 
offended,  or  hurt,  or  merely  annoyed,  it  was 
John's  policy  to  allow  her  to  exceed  her  ration. 

So  now  she  stood  in  the  dark  corner  by  the 
door,  clutching  an  elbow  feverishly  in  each  hand, 
as  if  she  feared  that  at  any  moment  her  fore- 

[103] 


The  House  by  the  River 

arms  might  fly  away  and  be  no  more  seen,  and 
began : 

"  Sack,  indeed!  What  next,  I  wonder?  And 
I'm  shore  I  hope  you'll  like  the  fillet  of  plaice, 
Mr.  Egerton,  though  reely  I  don't  know  what 
your  tastes  are.  We  all  have  our  likes  and  dis- 
likes as  they  say,  and  it  takes  time  learning  gen- 
tlemen's little  ways.  But  as  for  seeing  a  sack  in 
this  house  —  well,  I'm  shore  I  don't  know  when 
you  had  it,  Mr.  Egerton.  A  pore  young  thing 
that  maid  they  have,  so  mean  and  scraggy-looking 
—  a  proper  misery,  /  call  her.  And  Mrs.  Byrne 
in  that  condition,  too;  one  would  think  they 
wanted  a  good  strong  gairl  to  help  about  the 
house.  The  doctor  was  sent  for  this  afternoon, 
Mr.  Egerton,  and  I  don't  wonder  it  came  so  soon, 
what  with  the  worry  about  that  other  hussy  go- 
ing off  like  that  —  would  you  like  the  Worces- 
ter, Mr.  Egerton?  You  must 'tell  me,  you  know, 
if  there  is  anything.  I  know  the  last  gentleman 
would  have  mushroom  catchup,  or  ketchop  as 
they  call  it  —  nothing  would  satisfy  him  but  mush- 
room catchup,  and  for  those  as  like  their  insides 
messed  up  with  toadstools  and  dandelions  I'm 
shore  it's  very  tasty,  but,  as  I  was  saying,  that 
Emily  was  a  bad  one  and  there's  no  mistake, 
gadding  off  like  that  with  a  young  man  and  not 
her  night  out,  and  then  the  sauce  of  her  people 
coming  round  and  bothering  Mrs.  Byrne  about 
[104] 


The  House  by  the  River 

her  —  the  idea.  Cook  tells  me  Mr.  Byrne  told 
them  straight  out  about  her  goings  on  with  young 
men  all  the  time  she's  been  here,  in  and  out,  in 
and  out  night  after  night  —  and  —  " 

John  woke  up  with  a  start. 

"What's  that  you  say,  Mrs.  Bantam?  Mr. 
Byrne  —  Mr.  Byrne  did  what?  " 

"  I  was  just  saying,  sir,  how  Mr.  Byrne  told 
Emily's  people  what  he  thought  of  her  when  they 
come  worrying  round  the  other  day,  so  Cook  was 
telling  me.  A  proper  hussy  she  must  have  been 
and  no  mistake  —  not  Cook  I  mean,  but  that 
young  Emily,  gadding  out  night  after  night, 
young  men  and  followers  and  the  good  Lord 
knows  what  all.  Are  you  ready  for  your  cutlet 
now,  sir,  and  all  that  plaice  left  in  the  dish? 
Well,  I  never  did,  if  you  aren't  a  poor  eater,  Mr. 
Egerton  —  and  there's  no  doubt  she  was  out  with 
one  of  them  one  night  and  went  further  than  she 
meant,  no  doubt,  but  if  you  make  your  bed  you 
must  lie  on  it,  though  I've  no  doubt  she's  sorry 
now  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Bantam  passed  out  into  the  kitchen,  her 
voice  trailing  distantly  away  like  the  voices  of  the 
Pilgrims  in  Tannhauser. 

John  sat  silent,  pondering  darkly  her  disclo- 
sures. It  was  a  fortnight  now  since  the  fatal  eve- 
ning of  Emily  Gaunt's  destruction  and  disposal. 
During  that  fortnight  he  had  not  once  seen 


The  House  by  the  River 

Stephen  Byrne  in  private.  They  had  met  at  the 
Underground  Station;  they  had  pressed  against 
each  other  in  the  rattling  train,  shouting  odd 
scraps  of  conversation  with  other  members  of 
The  Chase;  and  John  had  marvelled  at  the  easy 
cheerfulness  of  his  friend.  But  since  that  night 
he  had  never  "  dropped  in  "  or  "  looked  in  "  at 
The  House  by  the  River  in  the  evenings.  He  had 
never  been  asked  to  come,  and  he  was  glad.  He 
was  afraid  of  seeing  Stephen  alone,  and  he  sup- 
posed that  Stephen  was  afraid. 

He  had  wondered  sometimes  what  was  going 
on  in  that  house,  had  felt  sometimes  that  he  ought 
to  go  round  and  be  helpful.  But  he  could  not. 
Like  all  The  Chase,  he  had  heard  through  his 
domestic  staff  of  the  sudden  and  inexcusable  dis- 
appearance of  Emily  Gaunt.  The  soundless,  un- 
canny systems  of  communication,  which  the  more 
skilled  Indian  tribes  are  reputed  to  employ,  could 
not  have  disseminated  with  greater  thoroughness 
or  rapidity  than  Mrs.  Byrne's  cook  the  precise 
details  of  the  Emily  mystery;  how  they  had  car- 
ried on  angrily  without  her  for  three  or  four  days, 
railing  at  her  defection  and  lack  of  faith;  how 
Mr.  Byrne  had  at  last  suggested  that  she  might 
have  met  with  an  accident;  how  the  police  had 
been  informed;  how  they  had  prowled  about  the 
garden  and  looked  aimlessly  under  beds;  how 
they  had  shaken  their  pompous  heads  again  and 
[i  06] 


The  House  by  the  River 

gone  away,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  There  had 
been  no  explanation  and  few  theories,  so  far,  to 
account  for  the  vanishing  of  Emily.  Now  Mrs. 
Bantam  had  given  him  one,  invented,  apparently, 
and  propagated  by  Stephen.  And  it  shook  him 
like  a  blow.  That  that  poor  girl  —  as  good  as 
gold,  so  far  as  he  knew  —  should  be  slandered 
and  vilified  in  death  by  the  one  man  who  should 
have  taken  care  at  least  to  keep  her  name  clean. 
A  fierce  note  of  scorn  and  disgust  broke  involun- 
tarily from  him. 

"  Coming,  sir,"  cried  Mrs.  Bantam,  hurrying  in 
with  the  almost  imperceptible  bustle  of  a  swan 
pressed  for  time.  "  And  it's  sorry  I  am  it's  only 
a  couple  of  cutlets  I'm  giving  you,  brown  and 
nice  as  they  are,  but  could  I  get  steak  at  the 
butcher's  today?  Not  if  I  was  the  King  of 
Spain,  sir,  no,  and  the  loin-chop  that  scraggy  it 
was  a  regular  piece  of  profiteering  to  have  it  in 
the  shop,  that  it  was,  let  alone  sell  it.  Well, 
sir,  as  my  poor  hubby  used  to  say,  that  young 
woman's  no  better  than  she  should  be,  and  she's 
come  to  a  bad  end.  .  .  ." 

"  Never  mind  her  now,  Mrs.  Bantam.  We 
don,'t  know  anything — " 

"  Know  anything !  I  should  think  not,  sir,  for 
they're  all  as  deceiving  and  artful  as  each  other, 
of  course,  and  when  a  nice  kind  gentleman  like 
Mr.  Byrne  —  but  if  one  can't  know  one  can  guess 

[107] 


The  House  by  the  River 

—  a  nod's  as  good  as  a  wink,  they  say,  and  I'm 
shore  — " 

The  address  continued  interminably.  John 
made  himself  as  the  deaf  adder  and  scraped  his 
cutlet  clean  in  a  mute  fever  of  irritation.  He 
felt  as  a  man  feels  in  a  busy  office,  working  against 
time  at  some  urgent  task  in  the  face  of  constant 
interruptions.  He  could  not  fix  his  mind  on  the 
Emily  matter,  on  Stephen,  on  the  Underground 
Railway,  or  his  food.  There  was  a  kind  of  thick- 
ness about  his  temples  which  he  had  noticed  al- 
ready at  Turnham  Green  station,  and  he  felt  that 
he  was  not  digesting.  Mrs.  Bantam  hammered 
ruthlessly  on  his  tired  head;  and  the  ticket  col- 
lector and  the  Board  of  Trade,  and  Emily  and 
Stephen  Byrne  and  the  young  porter  at  Victoria 
rushed  indignantly  about  inside  it.  Sometimes  he 
w*aved  a  fork  distractedly  at  Mrs.  Bantam  and 
asked  her  to  fetch  a  new  kind  of  sauce,  to  secure 
a  moment's  respite.  Soon  all  the  sauce  bottles 
he  possessed  were  ranged  before  him,  a  pitiful 
monument  of  failure.  And  when  Mrs.  Bantam 
swept  out  to  organize  the  sweet,  he  shouted  that 
he  had  finished,  and  stole  out  into  the  garden,  de- 
feated. 

It  was  a  damp  and  misty  evening,  with  the  hint 
of  rain.  The  tide  was  as  it  had  been  a  fortnight 
before  on  the  Emily  evening,  rolling  exuberantly 
in.  Far  out  in  the  centre  a  dead  yellow  cat 
[108] 


The  House  by  the  River 

drifted  westward  at  an  astonishing  speed,  high 
out  o£  the  water.  He  knew  the  cat  well.  For 
weeks  it  had  passed  up  and  down  the  river.  As 
far  up  a.s  Richmond  he  had  seen  it,  and  as  far 
down  as  London  Bridge.  Some  days,  perhaps, 
it  caught  under  a  moored  barge,  or  was  fixed  for 
a  little  in  the  piers  of  a  bridge,  or  ran  ashore  in 
the  reeds  above  Putney,  or  lay  at  low  tide  under 
Hammerton  Terrace.  But  most  days  it  floated 
protesting  through  the  Metropolis  and  back  again. 
John  wjondered  idly  for  how  long  it  would  drift 
like  that,  and  in  what  last  adventure  it  would 
finally  disappear  —  cut  in  twain  by  a  bustling  tug, 
or  stoned  to  the  bottom  by  boys,  or  dragged 
down  to  the  muddy  depths  by  saturation.  He 
thought  of  it  straining  now  towards  the  sea,  now 
to  the  open  country,  yet  ever  plucked  back  by  the 
turning,  relentless  tide,  just  as  it  saw  green  fields 
or  smelt  the  smell  of  the  sea,  to  travel  yet  once 
more  through  the  dark  and  cruel  city.  Once  it 
was  a  kitten,  fondled  by  children  and  very  round 
and  lovable  and  fat.  And  then  the  world  had  be- 
come indifferent,  and  then  menacing,  and  then 
definitely  hostile.  Finally,  no  doubt,  it  had  died 
a  death  of  violence.  John  thought  then  of  Emily, 
and  sighed  heavily.  But  he  was  feeling  better 
now.  Silence  and  the  river  had  soothed  him; 
and  —  given  quiet  and  solitude  —  he  had  the 
Civil  Servant's  capacity  for  switching  his  mind 

[109] 


The  House  by  the  River 

from  urgent  worries  to  sedative  thoughts.  The 
cat,  somehow,  had  been  a  sedative,  in  spite  of 
its  violent  end.  He  went  indoors  out  of  the  dark 
garden,  studiously  not  looking  at  Stephen's  win- 
dows. 

While  he  was  on  the  stairs  the  telephone-bell 
rang  in  his  study.  He  took  off  the  receiver  and 
listened  moodily  to  a  profound  silence,  varied  only 
by  the  sound  of  some  one  furtively  picking  a  lock 
with  the  aid  of  a  dynamo.  Angrily  he  banged  on 
the  receiver  and  arranged  himself  in  an  arm-chair 
with  a  heavy  book. 

When  he  had  done  this  the  bell  rang  again. 
A  petulant  voice  —  no  doubt  justifiably  petulant 
—  said  suddenly,  "  Are  you  the  Midland  Rail- 
way?" 

John  said,  "  No,"  and  rang  off;  then  he  thought 
of  all  the  bitter  and  ironic  things  he  ought  to  have 
said  and  regretted  his  haste. 

He  sat  down  and  lit  his  pipe.  The  accursed 
bell  rang  again,  insistently,  with  infinitesimal 
pauses  between  the  "rings.  He  got  up  violently, 
with  a  loud  curse.  The  blood  surged  again  in 
his  head;  the  ticket  collector  and  the  maddening 
train  and  Mrs.  Bantam  crowded  back  and  concen- 
trated themselves  into  the  hateful  exasperating 
shape  of  the  telephone.  He  took  off  the  receiver 
and  shouted,  "Hullo!  hullo!  What  is  it? 
What  is  it?  Stop  that  ringing!  "  There  was 
[no] 


The  House  by  the  River 

no  answer;  the  bell  continued  to  ring.  He  had 
banged  his  pipe  against  the  instrument,  and  the 
first  ash  was  scattered  over  the  papers  on  the  table. 
He  took  it  out  of  his  mouth,  and  furiously  wag- 
gled the  receiver  bracket  up  and  down.  He  had 
heard  that  this  caused  annoyance,  if  not  actual 
pain,  to  the  telephone  operator,  and  he  hoped  fer- 
vently that  this  was  true.  He  wanted  to  hurt 
somebody.  He  would  have  liked  to  pick  up  the 
instrument  and  hurl  it  in  the  composite  face  of 
the  evening's  persecutors.  His  pipe  rolled  off  on 
to  the  floor. 

He  shouted  again,  "  Oh,  what  is  it?  Hullo! 
hullo!  hullo!" 

The  ringing  abruptly  ceased,  and  a  low,  anxious 
voice  was  heard:  "  Hullo!  hullo!  hullo!  Is  that 
you,  John?  Hullo!"  —  Stephen's  voice. 

"Yes;  what  is  it?" 

"  Can  you  come  round  a  minute?  I  must  see 
you.  It's  urgent." 

"  What  about?  "  said  John,  with  a  vague  pre- 
monition. 

"  About  —  about  —  you  know  what !  —  about 
the  other  night  —  you  must  come !  I  can't  leave 
the  house." 

"  No,  I'm  damned  if  I  do  —  I've  had  enough 
of  that."  At  that  moment  John  felt  that  he 
hated  his  old  friend.  The  accumulated  annoy- 
ances of  the  day  merged  in  and  reinforced  the  new 

[in] 
• 


The  House  by  the  River 

indignation  he  had  felt  against  Stephen  since  the 
sack  incident  and  the  revelations  of  Mrs.  Bantam. 
He  had  had  enough.  He  refused  to  be  further 
entangled  in  that  business. 

Then  Stephen  spoke  again,  appealingly,  despair- 
fully.  "  John  —  you  must!  It's  —  it's  come 
up." 


[112] 


VI 

JOHN  EGERTON  prepared  himself  to  go 
round.  He  cursed  himself  for  a  weak 
fool;  he  reviled  his  fate,  and  Emily  and 
Stephen  Byrne.  But  he  prepared  himself.  He 
was  beaten. 

But  as  he  opened  the  front  door  the  bell  rang, 
and  he  saw  Stephen  himself  on  the  doorstep  — 
a  pale  and  haggard  Stephen,  blinking  weakly  at 
the  sudden  blaze  of  light  in  the  hall.  . 

"  I  came  round  after  all,"  he  said.  "  It's 
urgent!  "  But  he  stepped  in  doubtfully. 

The  two  curses  of  John  Egerton's  composition 
were  his  shyness  and  his  soft-heartedness.  When 
he  saw  Stephen  he  tried  to  look  implacable;  he 
tried  to  feel  as  angry  as  he  had  felt  a  moment 
before.  But  that  weary  and  anxious  face,  that 
moment's  hesitation  on  the  step,  and  the  whole 
shamefaced  aspect  of  his  friend  melted  him  in  a 
moment. 

Something  terrible  must  be  going  on  to  make 
the  vital,  confident  Stephen  Byrne  look  like  that. 
Once  more,  he  must  be  helped. 

In  the  study,  sipping  like  a  wounded  man  at  a 

["3] 


The  House  by  the  River 

comforting  tumbler  of  whisky  and  water,  Stephen 
told  his  story,  beginning  in  the  fashion  of  one 
dazed,  with  long  pauses. 

That  evening,  just  before  dinner,  as  Mrs.  Ban- 
tam had  correctly  reported,  the  doctor  had  been 
sent  for.  And  Stephen,  waiting  in  the  garden 
for  his  descent,  gazing  moodily  through  a  thin 
drizzle  at  the  grey  rising  river,  had  seen  unmis- 
takably fifty  yards  from  the  bank  a  semi-sub- 
merged object  drifting  rapidly  past,  wrapped  up 
in  sacking.  A  large  bulge  of  sacking  had  shown 
above  the  surface.  It  was  Emily  Gaunt. 

He  was  sure  it  was  Emily  Gaunt  because  of 
the  colour  of  the  sacking  —  a  peculiar  yellowish 
tint,  unusual  in  sacks.  And  because  he  had  al- 
ways known  it  would  happen.  He  had  always 
known  the  rope  would  work  on  the  flimsy  stuff  as 
the  tide  pulled,  and  eventually  part  it  altogether. 
And  now  it  had  happened. 

When  he  saw  it  he  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
"  I  felt  like  rushing  out  into  the  boat  at  once," 
Stephen  said,  "and  catching  the  thing  —  but  the 
doctor  .  .  .  Margery  ...  I  had  to  wait  .  .  ." 
he  finished  vaguely. 

"  Of  course,"  said  John. 

"  When  he  came  down  he  said  all  was  well  — 
or  fairly  so  —  and  he'd  come  again  this  evening. 
I'm  expecting  him  now."  Then  with  sudden  en- 
ergy, "  I  wish  to  God  he'd  come.  ...  Is  that 
["4] 


The  House  by  the  River 

him?"     Stephen    stopped    and    listened.     John 
listened.     There  was  no  sound. 

"  But  we  mustn't  waste  time  —  half-past  eight 
now  —  tide  turning  in  a  moment."  He  leaned 
forward  now,  and  began  to  speak  with  a  jerky, 
almost  incoherent  haste,  telescoping  his  words. 

'  When  he'd  gone  I  dashed  down  to  the  boat 
.  .  .  could  still  see  the  —  the  thing  in  the  dis- 
tance —  going  round  the  bend  .  .  .  thought  I'd 
catch  it  easily,  but  the  engine  wouldn't  start  — 
of  COURSE  !  Took  me  half  an  hour  .  .  .  starved 
for  petrol,  I  think.  .  .  ."  He  stopped  for  a 
moment,  as  if  still  speculating  on  the  precise 
malady  of  the  engine. 

"  When  I  did  get  away  .  .  .  went  like  a  bird 
.  .  .  nearly  up  to  Kew  .  .  .  but  not  a  sign  of 
the  —  the  sack  .  .  .  looked  everywhere  .  .  . 
couldn't  wait  any  longer  ...  I  had  to  get  back 
.  .  .  only  just  back  now  .  .  .  against  the  tide. 
John,  will  you  go  out  now?  .  .  .  for  God's  sake, 
go  ...  take  the  boat  and  just  patrol  about 
.  .  .  slack  water  now  .  .  .  tide  turns  in  about 
ten  minutes  .  .  .  the  damned  thing  must  come 
down  .  .  .  unless  it's  stuck  somewhere  .  .  . 
you  must  go,  John.  We  must  get  hold  of  it 
tonight  .  .  .  tonight  ...  or  they'll  find  it  in  the 
morning.  And,  John,"  he  added,  as  a  hideous 
afterthought,  his  voice  rising  to  a  kind  of  hys- 
terical shriek.  "  there's  a  label  on  the  sack  —  with 


The  House  by  the  River 

my  name   and   address  —  I   remembered  yester- 
day." 

"  But  ...  but  ..  ."  began  John. 

"Quick!  .  .  .  I've  got  to  get  back."  Stephen 
stood  up.  "  God  knows  what  they  think  of  me  at 
home  as  it  is.  ...  Say  you'll  go,  John  —  here's 
the  key  of  the  boat  .  .  .  she'll  start  at  once  now. 
.  .  .  It's  a  thousand  to  one  chance,  but  it's 
worth  it.  ...  And  if  you're  not  quick  it'll  go 
past  again." 

Something  of  his  old  masterfulness  was  coming 
back  with  his  excitement.  But  when  John  still 
hesitated,  his  slow  mouth  framing  the  beginnings 
of  objection,  the  hunted  look  came  upon  Stephen 
again. 

"  John,  for  God's  sake !  "  he  said,  with  a  low, 
pleading  note.  "  I'm  about  done,  old  man  .  .  . 
what  with  Margery  and  —  and  .  .  .  but  there's 
still  a  chance  .  .  .  John !  " 

The  wretched  John  was  melted  again.  He  left 
his  objections  to  the  preposterous  proposal  un- 
spoken. He  put  his  hand  affectionately  on  the 
other's  shoulder. 

"  It's  all  right,  Stephen.  .  .  .  I'll  manage  it 
somehow  .  .  .  don't  you  worry,  old  boy.  .  .  . 
I'll  manage  it." 

"Thank  God!     I'll  go  now,  John.  .  .  .     I'll 
come  down  when  I  hear  you  come  back.   ...     I 
must  go.  .  .  ." 
[116] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Together  they  hurried  down  the  stairs,  and 
John  found  himself  suddenly  alone  at  the  end  of 
his  garden  in  an  old  mackintosh,  bemused  and 
incredulous. 

The  rain  had  come,  a  hot,  persistent,  sibilant 
rain,  and  already  it  had  brought  the  dark.  The 
river  was  a  shadowy  mosaic  of  small  splashes. 
The  lights  of  Barnes  showed  mistily  across  the 
river,  like  lamps  in  a  photograph.  The  tide  was 
gathering  momentum  for  the  ebb;  a  mass  of 
leaves  and  dead  branches  floated  sluggishly  past 
under  the  wall. 

John  was  in  the  boat,  fiddling  stupidly  at  the 
engine,  glistening  and  splashing  in  the  rain,  be- 
fore he  had  thought  at  all  what  exactly  he  was 
going  to  do  to  discharge  his  fantastic  undertaking. 
The  engine  started  miraculously.  John  cast  off 
and  the  boat  headed  doggedly  up  against  the  tide, 
John  peering  anxiously  from  side  to  side  at  the 
rain-speckled  water. 

The  engine  roared  and  clattered;  the  boat  vi- 
brated, quivering  all  over;  the  oars  and  boat- 
hook  rattled  ceaselessly  against  the  side  of  the 
boat  —  a  hollow,  monotonous  rattle ;  the  exhaust 
snorted  rhythmically  astern.  The  rain  splashed 
and  pattered  on  the  engine  and  on  the  thwarts, 
and  rolled  with  a  luxurious  swishing  sound  in  the 
bottom.  The  fly-wheel  of  the  engine  revolved 
like  a  Catherine-wheel  composed  of  water  — 


The  House  by  the  River 

water  flying  in  brief  tangents  from  the  rim.  John 
had  come  out  without  a  hat,  and  his  hair  was 
matted  and  black;  the  river  splashed  on  his  neck 
and  trickled  slowly  under  his  collar. 

It  was  a  heavy  task,  this,  for  one  man  with 
two  hands  to  attempt,  to  shield  the  engine  and 
himself  with  the  same  mackintosh,  extending  it 
like  a  wing  with  one  arm  over  the  fly-wheel,  and 
to  oil  occasionally  with  an  oil-can  the  mechanism 
of  the  pump,  to  regulate  the  oil-feed  and  the 
water-supply,  and  do  all  those  little  attentions 
without  which  the  engine  usually  stopped;  and 
at  the  same  time  to  steer  the  boat,  and  look  in 
the  river  for  the  floating  body  of  a  dead  woman 
in  a  sack.  It  was  madness.  In  that  watery  dusk 
his  chances  of  seeing  an  obscure  sack  seemed 
ludicrously  small.  And  what  was  he  to  do  with 
it  when  he  had  found  it?  How  should  he  dispose 
of  it  more  effectually  than  it  had  been  disposed  of 
before  ?  John  did  not  know. 

But  the  boat  rattled  and  gurgled  along,  past 
the  Island,  and  past  the  ferry,  till  they  were  level 
with  the  brewery,  by  the  bend.  The  bend  here 
made  at  one  side  a  large  stretch  of  slack  water 
where  the  tide  moved  hardly  at  all.  By  the  other 
bank  the  tide  raced  narrowly  down.  Here,  John 
thought,  was  the  place  for  his  purpose.  So  for 
a  long  hour  he  steered  the  boat  back  and  forth 
from  bank  to  bank,  peering  intensely  through  the 

[«*] 


The  House  by  the  River 

rain.  Sometimes  he  saw  a  log  or  a  basket  or  a 
broken  bottle  scurrying  dimly  past  and  chased  it 
with  a  wild  hope  downstream.  Once  he  made 
sure  that  he  had  found  what  he  had  sought  —  a 
light  object  floating  high  out  of  the  water;  this 
he  followed  half-way  down  the  Island.  And 
when  he  found  it  it  was  a  dead  cat  —  a  light- 
coloured  cat.  "  The  yellow  cat,"  he  thought. 
Once,  as  he  headed  obliquely  across  the  river, 
boathook  in  hand,  a  black  invisible  police-boat 
shot  surprisingly  across  his  bows.  A  curse  came 
out  of  the  gloom  and  a  lamp  was  flashed  at  him. 
The  police-boat  put  about  and  worked  back  along- 
side; a  heavy  man  in  a  cape  asked  him  what  the 
hell  he  was  doing,  charging  about  without  a  light. 
John  might  have  asked  the  same  question,  but 
he  was  too  frightened.  He  apologized  and  said 
he  had  let  go  of  the  rudder  line  to  do  some- 
thing to  the  engine.  The  policemen  went  on 
again,  growling. 

Then  the  tugs  began  to  come  down,  very  com- 
forting and  friendly,  their  lights  gliding  mistily 
through  the  wet.  John  had  to  be  careful  then, 
and  creep  upstream  along  the  bank  while  their 
long  lines  of  barges  swung  ponderously  round  the 
corner.  And  how  could  he  be  sure  that  Emily 
was  not  slipping  past  him  in  midstream,  as  he 
did  so?  It  was  hopeless,  this. 

The  wind  got  up  —  a  chilly  wind  from  the 

[H9] 


The  House  by  the  River 

East.  He  was  cold  and  clammy  and  terribly 
alone.  The  rain  had  crept  under  his  shirt  and 
up  his  sleeves;  his  trousers  hung  about  his  ankles, 
heavy  with  rain.  He  wanted  to  go  home;  he 
wanted  to  get  out  of  the  horrible  wet  boat;  he 
was  tired.  But  he  had  promised.  Stephen  was 
his  best  friend,  and  Stephen  had  appealed  to 
him.  He  had  done  a  bad  thing,  but  he  was  still 
Stephen. 

And  he,  John,  was  mixed  up  in  it  now.  If 
Emily  was  found  at  Putney  in  the  morning,  his 
own  story  would  have  to  be  told.  Not  a  good 
story,  either,  whatever  his  motives  had  been. 
What  had  his  motives  been?  Margery  Byrne, 
chiefly,  of  course.  Well,  she  was  still  a  motive 
—  very  much  so. 

But  how  futile  the  whole  thing  was,  how  wet 
and  miserable  and  vile!  It  must  have  been 
something  like  this  in  the  trenches,  only  worse. 
What  was  that  going  past?  A  bottle,  a  Bass 
bottle  with  a  screw  stopper,  bobbing  about  like  an 
old  man  walking.  Ha-ha!  What  would  he  do 
when  he  found  Emily?  What  the  devil  would 
he  do?  Sink  her  again?  But  he  had  no  anchor 
now  —  nothing.  Put  her  ashore  on  the  Island? 
But  somebody  would  find  her.  Take  her  out  of 
the  sack  —  the  incriminating  sack?  If  she 
was  found  by  herself,  a  mere  body,  in  a  night- 
dress. ...  In  a  night-dress?  The  night- 
[120] 


The  House  by  the  River 

dress  wouldn't  do.  She  mustn't  be  found  in 
a  night-dress.  He  would  have  to  get  rid  of 
that  too  —  that  and  the  sack.  Then  any  one 
might  find  her,  and  it  would  be  a  mystery. 
And  Stephen's  stories  .  .  .  Stephen's  stories 
about  her  levity  and  light  conduct  —  they  would 
come  in  useful.  People  like  Mrs.  Bantam  would 
quite  understand,  now  they  knew  what  sort  of 
person  Emily  had  been.  John  realized  with  a 
sudden  shame  that  he  was  feeling  glad  that 
Stephen  had  said  those  things. 

But  how  would  he  be  able  to  do  it?  How 
could  he  take  her  out  of  the  sack,  out  of  the 
night-dress,  and  throw  her  back?  How  could 
he  do  it?  and  where?  Once,  long  ago,  he  had 
come  upon  a  big  sack  drifting  in  the  evening.  It 
was  full  of  kindlewood,  little  penny  packets  of 
kindlewood,  tied  up  with  string.  He  remem- 
bered the  weight  of  it,  impossible  to  lift  into  the 
boat.  He  had  towed  it  home,  very  slowly.  He 
would  have  to  tow  Emily  —  land  somewhere. 
She  would  be  clammy  — •  and  slippery  —  and  dis- 
gusting. He  couldn't  do  it.  But  he  must.  The 
engine  stopped. 

The  engine  stopped,  mysteriously,  abruptly. 
The  boat  slid  sideways  down  the  river.  John 
pulled  her  head  round  with  a  paddle  and  fiddled 
gingerly  with  the  hot  engine.  The  rain  fell  upon 
it  and  sizzled.  He  turned  vaguely  a  number  of 

[121] 


The  House  by  the  River 

taps,  fingered  the  electric  wires;  all  was  appar- 
ently well.  He  heaved  at  the  starting-handle, 
patiently  at  first,  then  rapidly,  then  with  a  violent 
fury.  Nothing  happened.  The  boat  slid  along, 
turning  sideways  stupidly  in  the  wind.  They 
were  almost  level  with  The  House  by  the  River. 

It  was  no  good.  John  took  the  paddle  and 
worked  her  laboriously  across  the  tide.  He  had 
done  his  best,  he  felt.  The  rain  had  stopped. 

When  he  came  to  the  wooden  steps  the  lights 
were  on  in  Stephen's  dining-room,  in  Stephen's 
drawing-room.  And  against  the  light  he  saw  a 
head,  motionless  above  the  wall.  The  tide  was 
a  long  way  down  now,  faintly  washing  the  bot- 
tom of  the  wall. 

A  hoarse  whisper  came  over  the  water: 

"  John  —  John  —  any  luck?  " 

11  None,  Stephen,  I'm  sorry."  John's  voice 
was  curiously  soft  and  compassionate. 

There  was  silence.  Then  there  came  a  kind  of 
hysterical  cackle,  and  Stephen's  voice,  "  John,  it's 
—  it's  a  boy!  " 

John  stood  up  in  the  boat  and  began,  "  Con- 
gratulations, old  .  .  ." 

There  was  another  cackle,  and  the  head  was 
gone. 


[122] 


VII 

STEPHEN  MICHAEL  HILARY  BYRNE 
had  given  his  mother  the  maximum  of 
trouble  that  Friday  evening;  and  on  Sun- 
day morning  she  was  still  too  feeble  and  ill  to 
appreciate  his  beauty.  Old  Dr.  Browning  was 
less  cheerful  than  Stephen  had  ever  seen  him. 
He  shook  his  head  almost  grimly  as  he  squeezed 
his  square  frame  into  his  diminutive  car. 

Stephen  went  back  disconsolately  into  the 
warm  garden.  He  had  seen  Margery  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  she  had  whispered  weakly,  "  You  go 
out  in  your  boat,  my  dear,"  and.  then  something 
about  "  a  lovely  morning  .  .  .  I'm  all  right." 
Also  he  had  seen  his.  son  and  tried  hard  to  im- 
agine that  he  was  two  years  old,  a  legitimate  ob- 
ject for  enthusiasm.  He  had  helped  Joan  to  feed 
her  rabbits  and  swept  the  garden  and  tidied  things 
in  the  summer-house.  But  he  had  done  all  these 
things  with  an  anxious  eye  on  the  full  and  falling 
river.  And  already  he  had  had  several  shocks. 

Now  he  felt  that  he  could  not  leave  the  river, 
not  at  least  while  the  tide  was  up  and  there  was 
all  this  muddle  of  flotsam  quivering  past.  Usu- 
ally, on  Sunday  mornings  he  sat  in  his  sunny  win- 


The  House  by  the  River 

dow  writing,  with  the  birds  bickering  in  the 
creeper  outside  and  the  lazy  sounds  of  Sunday 
morning  floating  up  from  the  river.  Sunday 
morning  along  The  Chase  was  an  irreligious  but 
peaceful  occasion.  The  people  of  The  Chase 
strolled  luxuriously  in  the  hot  sun  from  door  to 
door,  watching  their  neighbours'  children  depart 
with  fussy  pomp  upon  their  walks.  Babies  slept 
interminably  in  huge  prams  under  the  trees.  The 
old  houses  looked  very  gracious  and  friendly  with 
the  wistaria  and  ivy  and  countless  kinds  of  green 
things  scrambling  about  the  rickety  balconies  and 
wandering  through  the  open  windows.  Strangers, 
walked  in  quiet  couples  along  the  path  and  ad- 
mired the  red  roofs  and  the  quaint  brass  knock- 
ers on  the  doors  and  the  nice  old  names  of  the 
houses  and  the  nice  old  ladies  purring  sleepily 
inside.  Out  on  the  river  the  owners  of  the  an- 
chored boats  prepared  them  happily  for  action, 
setting  sails  and  oiling  engines  and  hauling 
laboriously  at  anchors.  Two  white  cutters 
moved  delicately  about  in  the  almost  impercepti- 
ble breeze.  Strenuous  eights  and  fours  and  pairs 
went  rhythmically  up  and  down.  The  hoarse 
adjurations  of  their  trainers  came  over  the  water 
with  startling  clearness.  Single  scullers,  con- 
temptuously independent,  shot  by  like  large  water- 
beetles  in  slim  skiffs.  On  the  far  towpath  the 
idle  people  streamed  blissfully  along,  marvelling 


The  House  by  the  River 

at  the  gratuitous  exertions  of  the  oarsmen. 
Down  the  river  there  was  a  multitude  of  small 
boys  bathing  from  a  raft,  with  much  splashing  and 
shrill  cries.  Their  bodies  shone  like  polished 
metal  in  the  distance.  There  were  no  tugs  on 
Sundays,  but  at  intervals  a  river-steamer  plodded 
up  towards  Kew,  a  congested  muddle  of  straw 
hats  and  blouses.  Sometimes  a  piano  tinkled 
in  the  stern,  sounding  almost  beautiful  across 
the  water. 

On  all  these  vulgar  and  suburban  and  irreligious 
people  the  June  sun  looked  down  with  a  great 
kindness  and  warmth;  and  they  were  happy. 
And  Stephen,  as  a  rule,  was  happy  at  Hammer- 
smith on  Sunday  mornings.  He  thought  with 
repugnance  of  Sunday  morning  in  Kensington,  of 
stiff  clothes  in  the  High  Street  and  the  shuttered 
faces  of  large  drapery  stores;  he  thought  with 
pity  even  of  the  promenaders  in  Hyde  Park,  un- 
able to  see  the  trees  for  the  people,  unable  to 
look  at  the  sky  because  of  their  collars.  He  loved 
the  air  and  openness  and  pleasant  vulgar  variety 
of  Sunday  morning  at  Hammersmith.  Here  at 
least  it  was  a  day  of  naturalness  and  rest.  On 
any  other  Sunday,  if  the  tide  served,  he  would 
have  slipped  out  after  breakfast  in  his  boat  to 
gather  firewood  for  the  winter.  Just  now  there 
was  a  wealth  of  driftwood  in  the  river,  swept  off 
wharves  by  the  spring  tides  or  flung  away  by 


The  House  by  the  River 

bargees  —  wedges  and  small  logs  and  boxwood 
and  beams  and  huge  stakes,  and  delicious  planks 
covered  with  tar.  Any  one  who  had  a  boat  went 
wood-hunting  on  the  river. 

He  had  a  mind  to  go  now.  But  it  would  look 
so  odd,  with  his  wife  dangerously  ill  indoors, 
though  she  herself  had  told  him  to  do  it.  But 
then  that  was  like  her.  He  must  not  go  unless 
he  had  to  —  unless  he  saw  something.  .  .  .  All 
Saturday  while  the  tide  was  up  he  had  furtively 
watched  from  window  or  garden,  and  seen  noth- 
ing. Perhaps  he  had  made  a  mistake  on  Fri- 
day. 

No.  He  had  made  no  mistake.  Emily  Gaunt 
was  drifting  somewhere  in  this  damnably  public 
river.  Unless  she  was  already  found,  already 
lying  in  a  mortuary.  And  if  she  was  — 

Stephen  looked  enviously  at  the  happy  crowds 
on  the  towpath,  on  the  steamers,  in  the  boats.  A 
heavy  sculling-boat  passed  close  to  the  wall.  It 
seemed  almost  to  overflow  with  young  men  and 
women.  All  of  them  gazed  curiously  at  him, 
muttering  comments  on  his  appearance.  Their 
easy  laughter  annoyed  him.  He  went  indoors. 

He  sat  down  automatically  at  his  table  in  the 
window,  and  took  out  of  a  pigeon-hole  a  crumpled 
bundle  of  scribbled  paper.  It  was  the  beginning 
of  a  long  poem.  He  had  begun  it  —  when? 
Two  —  three  weeks  ago.  Before  Emily.  He 
[126] 


The  House  by  the  River 

read  through  what  he  had  written,  and  thought 
it  bad  —  weak,  flabby,  uneven  stuff  —  as  it  stood. 
But  it  was  a  good  idea,  and  he  could  do  it  justice, 
he  was  sure,  if  he  persevered.  But  not  now. 
Just  now  he  was  incapable.  Since  Emily's  night 
he  had  not  written  a  line  of  poetry;  he  had  only 
tried  once.  Not  because  of  his  conscience  —  it 
was  the  anxiety,  the  worry.  He  could  not  con- 
centrate. 

A  bell  rang  below,  and  he  wondered  if  it  was 
John  Egerton.  There  was  the  sound  of  conver- 
sation in  the  hall,  Cook's  voice  and  the  voice  of 
a  man,  powerful  and  low.  Then  Cook  lumbered 
up  the  stairs. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  there's  a  man  brought  the 
sack  back  what  Mr.  Egerton  took,  as  used  to  'ang 
in  the  scullery,  and  'e'd  like  to  see  you." 

Stephen  braced  himself  and  went  down.  The 
man  in  the  hall  was  an  obvious  detective  —  square 
built  and  solid,  with  hard  grey  eyes  and  a  dark 
walrus  moustache,  a  bowler  hat  in  his  hand.  In 
the  other  he  held  the  end  of  a  yellow  sack,  muddy 
in  patches  and  discoloured. 

"  Sorry  to  trouble  you,  sir,  but  can  you  tell  me 
anything  about  this  sack?  I'm  a  police  officer," 
he  added  unnecessarily. 

Stephen  felt  extraordinarily  cool. 

He  said,  "  Can't  say,  Inspector.  Sacks  are 
very  much  alike.  We  had  one  in  the  scullery 

[127] 


The  House  by  the  River 

once,  but — "  He  had  the  sack  in  his  hands 
now,  looking  for  the  label. 

"  And  what  happened  to  your  sack,  sir?  "  said 
the  man  smoothly. 

"We  lent  it  to  Mr.  Egerton,  and —  Hullo! 
where  did  you  find  this,  Inspector?  It  15  ours!  " 
And  he  held  it  out  for  the  other  to  see  the  blurred 
lines  of  the  label  stitched  inside  the  mouth  of  the 
sack.  The  name  of  Stephen  Byrne,  The  House 
by  the  River,  W.  6,  was  still  legible. 

"  Very  curious,  sir,"  said  the  man,  looking  hard 
at  Stephen.  "  Do  you  remember  when  you  lent 
it  to  Mr.  Egerton?  " 

Stephen  made  a  rapid  calculation.  The  exact 
period  was  seventeen  days. 

He  said,  "  When  was  it,  Cook?  About  three 
weeks  ago,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  Couldn't  say,  sir,  I'm  sure.  All  I  knows  is 
it  went  one  day,  and  the  other  day  we  asked 
for  it  back  from  Mr.  Egerton  when  the  man  came 
about  the  bottles,  and  he  said  —  Mr.  Egerton 
said,  that  is  —  as  he  was  sorry  he'd  lost  it  picking 
up  wood,  or  so  Mabel  said,  and  it  was  Mabel  as 
went  round  for  it." 

Stephen  was  feeling  cooler  and  cooler.  It  was 
all  amazingly  easy. 

He  said,  "That's  right,  Cook;  I  remember 
now.  I  gave  it  to  Mr.  Egerton  myself  one  eve- 
ning; he  was  going  out  to  get  wood."  Then,  with 
[128] 


The  House  by  the  River 

a  tone  of  cheerful  finality  as  one  who  puts  an  end 
to  a  tedious  conversation  with  an  inferior, 
"  Well,  I'm  sure  we're  much  obliged  to  you,  In- 
spector, for  bringing  it  back.  Where  —  " 

"  If  you  don't  mind,  sir,  I'd  like  to  keep  it  a 
little  longer.  Those  are  my  orders,  sir  —  there's 
a  little  matter  we're  clearing  up  just  now  —  " 

"  Just  so.  Certainly,  Inspector.  As  long  as 
you  like." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  And  as  I  take  it,  sir,  none 
of  your  household  has  seen  anything  of  this  article 
since  you  lent  it  to  Mr.  Egerton?  " 

"  As  far  as  I  know,  no  one  —  I  certainly 
haven't  seen  it  myself.  In  fact,  I  was  looking  for 
it  only  the  other  day." 

The  Inspector  thought  obviously  for  a  moment, 
and  obviously  decided  to  say  no  more.  "  Well, 
that's  all,  sir,  and  thank  you." 

Stephen  bowed  him  affably  out  of  the  door. 
"  Of  course,  if  it's  anything  important,  I  should 
look  in  and  see  Mr.  Egerton  —  he's  only  next 
door." 

"  No,  sir,  it's  of  no  consequence.  I'll  be  off 
now." 

The  man  departed,  with  many  smiles,  and 
"  sirs,"  and  "  Thank  you's,"  and  Stephen  watched 
him  round  the  corner. 

Then  he  went  into  the  garden,  full  of  a  curious 
relief,  almost  of  exultation.  He  could  delight  at 

[129] 


The  House  by  the  River 

last  in  the  sun  and  the  boats  and  the  happy,  irre- 
sponsible people.  He,  too,  could  look  at  the 
beloved  river  without  any  urgent  anxiety  of  what 
it  might  carry  into  his  view.  The  worst  was  over ; 
the  doubts  were  done  with.  Emily  was  found, 
and  there  was  an  end  to  it.  And  he  had  diddled 
the  policeman.  How  cleverly,  how  gloriously  he 
had  diddled  the  policeman.  Perfect  frankness 
and  easiness  and  calm  —  a  gracious  manner  and  a 
good  lie  —  they  had  worked  perfectly.  He  had 
never  hoped  for  anything  so  easy.  Almost 
without  intention,  certainly  without  plan,  as  if 
inspired  he  had  uttered  those  tremendous  lies 
about  John.  And,  of  course,  he  could  hardly 
have  said  anything  else.  Cook  had  given  John 
away  already;  one  must  be  consistent.  Poor  old 
John !  He  must  see  John  —  talk  to  him  —  warn 
him  —  no,  diddle  him.  He  could  manage  John 
all  right. 

He  went  down  the  steps  into  his  tiny  dinghy  — 
a  minute,  fragile,  flat-bottomed  affair,  just  large 
enough  and  strong  enough  for  a  single  man.  It 
flitted  lightly  on  the  surface  like  one  of  those 
cumbrous-looking  waterflies  which  move  sud- 
denly on  the  quiet  surface  of  ponds  with  a 
startling  velocity.  He  called  it  The  Water 
Beetle. 

With  a  few,  strokes  Stephen  shot  out  into  the 
lovely  sun,  and  drifted  a  little,  faintly  stirring 
[130] 


The  House  by  the  River 

the  oars  as  they  rested  flatly  on  the  golden  water 
with  a  movement  which  was  almost  a  caress.  It 
was  very  delightful  out  there,  very  soothing  and 
warm.  It  was  inspiring,  too.  Stephen  thought 
suddenly  of  the  long  poem.  He  must  have  a  go 
at  that  —  now  that  things  were  better,  now  that 
his  mind  was  easier. 

Then  he  saw  John  walk  down  to  the  end  of  his 
garden,  smoking  comfortably  the  unique  and  won- 
derful Sunday  morning  pipe.  He  rowed  back 
immediately  to  the  wall,  framing  smooth  ex- 
planatory phrases  in  his  head.  John,  he  saw, 
was  gazing  with  a  strained  look  through  his 
glasses  at  a  muddle  of  wreckage  drifting  down 
from  the  Island. 

"  You  needn't  worry,  John,"  he  said;  "  it's  all 
over  —  it's  —  it's  found.  .  .  .  Come  down  the 
steps." 

John  came  down  and  squatted  at  the  foot  of 
the  steps,  saying  nothing.  Stephen  tied  up  the 
boat,  but  did  not  get  out  of  it. 

"  A  man's  been  here  this  morning  —  a  police- 
man —  with  the  sack  ...  he  wanted  to  know  if 
we  knew  anything  about  it.  ...  Cook  saw  him 
first,  and  let  out  that  it  was  ours  —  said  we'd 
lent  it  to  you  —  silly  fool  .  .  .  about  three 
weeks  back  .  .  .  when  I  saw  him  it  was  too  late 
to  say  anything  else.  .  .  ."  He  stopped  and 


The  House  by  the  River 

looked  up.  Surely  John  was  going  to  say  some- 
thing. 

John  looked  steadily  at  him  and  said  nothing. 

"  She  said  Mabel  went  round  and  asked  you  for 
it,  and  you  said  —  what  did  you  say,  John?  " 

John  looked  out  across  the  river  and  thought. 
Then  he  said  in  a  far-away  voice : 

"  I  said  I'd  taken  it  out  to  pick  up  wood  —  and 
lost  it.  Overboard  ...  I  had  to  say  some- 
thing." 

"  Hell !  "  Stephen  hoped  that  this  exclama- 
tion had  an  authentic  note  of  perplexity  and  dis- 
tress. He  was  conscious  of  neither,  only  of  a 
singular  clearness  and  contentment. 

"  Well,  what  are  we  going  to  do  now?  " 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Margery's  very  bad  this  morning,"  he  went 
on,  with  seeming  irrelevance.  "  We're  very 
worried.  The  doctor  .  .  ." 

John  interrupted  suddenly,  "What  can  we  do? 
What  will  the  police  do  next?  Will  they  come 
and  see  me?  "  He  had  a  sudden  appalling  vision 
of  himself  in  a  stammering,  degrading  interview 
with  a  detective. 

"  No,  John,  they  won't  bother  you.  .  .  .  I'm 
the  man  they'll  bother.  .  .  .  There'll  be  an  in- 
quest, of  course.  .  .  .  And  I'm  afraid  you'll 
have  to  give  evidence,  John  .  .  .  say  what  you 
said  before,  you  know  .  .  .  say  you  lost  it  ... 


The  House  by  the  River 

about  three  weeks  ago  .  .  .  that's  what  I  said 
.  .  .  somebody  must  have  picked  it  up.  .  .  . 
I'm  awfully  sorry,  John  —  but  it  will  be  all  right. 
.  .  ."  Then,  doubtfully,  "  Of  course,  John  .  .  . 
if  you'd  rather  .  .  .  I'll  go  at  once  and  tell  them 
the  whole  thing.  ...  I  hate  the  idea  of  you 
.  .  .  but  there's  Margery.  .  .  .  The  doctor 
said  ...  I  don't  know  what  would  happen  .  .  ." 

John  was  roused  at  last.  "  Of  course  not, 
Stephen  .  .  .  you're  not  to  think  of  it  ...  it'll 
be  all  right,  as  you  say.  .  .  .  Only  .  .  .  only 
.  .  ."  with  a  strange  fierceness,  "  I  wish  to  God  it 
had  never  happened."  And  he  looked  at  Stephen 
very  straight  and  stern,  almost  comically  stern. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Stephen,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 
For  the  first  time  since  the  policeman  left  he  had 
the  old  sense  of  guiltiness  and  gloom. 

'  There's  one  thing,  Stephen  .  .  ."  John  hesi- 
tated and  stammered  a  little.  "  I've  heard  some 
awful  rumours  about  .  .  .  about  that  girl  .  .  . 
immoral  and  so  on  ...  they're  not  true,  are 
they?  .  .  .  anyhow,  don't  let's  encourage  them, 
Stephen  .  .  .  it's  not  necessary  .  .  .  and  I 
don't  like  it.  .  .  ."  He  stopped,  and  was  aware 
that  he  was  blushing. 

It  was  a  lame  presentation  of  what  he  had  in- 
tended as  a  firm  unanswerable  ultimatum :  "  If 
you  want  me  to  help  you,  you  must  drop  all  this." 
But  Stephen  somehow  always  intimidated  him. 

[133] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Stephen  thought,  "The  damned  old  prig!" 
He  said,  "  What  do  you  mean,  John?  You  don't 
imagine  I  ...  these  servants,  I  suppose  .  .  . 
but  I  quite  agree.  ...  I  must  go  and  see  Mar- 
gery now.  So  long,  John  .  .  .  and  thank  you 
so  much." 

John  went  up  into  his  garden  and  into  his  house 
and  sat  for  a  long  time  in  a  leather  chair  thinking 
and  wondering.  Stephen  walked  briskly  in  and 
whispered  to  the  nurse.  Mrs.  Byrne  was  asleep. 

He  sat  down  at  the  sunny  table  in  the  study  win- 
dow, and  drew  out  again  the  long  poem.  It  was 
a  good  idea  —  a  very  good  idea.  He  read 
through  what  he  had  written;  uneven,  yes,  but 
there  was  good  stuff  in  it.  A  little  polishing  up 
wanted,  a  little  correction.  All  that  bit  in  the 
middle  .  .  .  He  scratched  out  "  white "  and 
scribbled  over  it  "  pale."  Yes,  that  was  better. 
The  next  part,  about  the  snow,  was  rather  wordy 
—  wanted  condensing;  there  were  six  lines,  and 
four  at  least  were  very  good  —  but  one  of  them 
must  go  —  perhaps  two.  He  sharpened  a  pen- 
cil, looking  out  at  the  river. 


[134] 


VIII 

AFTER  the  inquest  The  Chase  had  plenty 
to  talk  about.  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  Mrs. 
Church  were  kept  very  busy.  For  few 
of  The  Chase  had  been  actually  present  in  the 
flesh  —  not  because  they  were  not  interested  and 
curious  and  indeed  aching  to  be  present,  but  be- 
cause it  seemed  hardly  decent.  Since  the  great 
Nuisance  Case  about  the  noise  of  the  Quick  Boat 
Company's  motor-boats  there  had  been  no  event 
of  communal  importance  to  The  Chase;  life  had 
been  a  lamentable  blank.  And  it  was  an  ill- 
chance  that  the  first  genuine  excitement,  not 
counting  the  close  of  the  Great  War,  should  be 
a  function  which  it  seemed  hardly  decent  to  at- 
tend: an  inquest  on  the  dead  body  of  a  house- 
maid from  The  Chase  discovered  almost  naked  in 
a  sack  by  a  police-boat  at  Barnes.  Nevertheless, 
a  sprinkling  of  The  Chase  was  there  —  Mrs. 
Vincent  for  one,  and  Horace  Dimple,  the  barris- 
ter, for  another  —  though  he  of  course  attended 
the  inquest  purely  as  a  matter  of  professional  in- 
terest, in  the  same  laudable  spirit  of  inquiry  in 
which  law  students  crowd  to  the  more  sensational 
or  objectionable  trials  at  the  High  Court.  There 

[135] 


The  House  by  the  River 

were  also  Mr.  Mard,  the  architect,  who  was  on 
the  Borough  Council,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tatham, 
who  had  to  visit  the  Food  Committee  that  day. 
These,  being  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Court, 
thought  it  would  be  foolish  not  to  "  look  in." 
Few  of  them  overtly  acknowledged  that  the  others 
were  visibly  there,  or,  if  they  were  compelled  to 
take  notice,  smiled  thinly  and  looked  faintly  sur- 
prised. 

But  so  startling  and  sensational  was  the  course 
of  the  inquest  that  when  they  returned  to  their 
homes  any  doubts  about  the  propriety  of  attend- 
ing it  were  speedily  smothered  by  the  important 
fact  that  they  had  positively  been  there,  had  been 
eyewitnesses  of  the  astonishing  scene,  whether 
from  chance  or  compassion  or  curiosity,  or  wis- 
dom, or  simple  power  of  divination,  which  most  of 
them  felt  they  must  undoubtedly  possess.  They 
had  known  all  along  that  there  was  "  something 
fishy  "  about  that  girl's  disappearance,  and  now, 
you  see,  they  were  right.  They  looked  eagerly 
in  the  morning  papers  and  in  the  evening  papers 
as  only  those  look  who  have  seen  something  actu- 
ally take  place,  and  insanely  crave  to  see  it  re- 
ported in  dirty  print  in  the  obscure  corners  of  a 
newspaper.  So  do  men  who  happen  on  a  day  to 
hear  part  of  a  Parliamentary  debate  anxiously 
study  on  the  morrow  the  Parliamentary  reports 
at  which  they  have  never  so  much  as  glanced 
[136] 


The  House  by  the  River 

before,  and  are  never  likely  to  glance  again.  .  .  . 
But  this  is  human  nature,  and  we  must  not  be 
unkind  to  The  Chase  because  they  were  unable 
to  depart  from  that  high  standard. 

The  papers  reported  the  affair  with  curious 
brevity  and  curiously  failed  to  get  at  the  heart  of 
it.  The  headlines  were  all  about  "  Mr.  Stephen 
Byrne  "—"  Poet's  Housemaid  "— "  Tragedy  in 
an  Author's  House  " —  and  so  on.  It  was  only 
at  the  end  of  the  small  paragraphs  that  you  found 
out  there  were  black  suspicions  about  a  Civil 
Servant,  one  John  Egerton,  first-class  clerk  in  the 
Ministry  of  Drains.  And  for  The  Chase  these 
suspicions  were  the  really  startling  and  enthral- 
ling outcome  of  the  inquest,  as  Mrs.  Vincent  and 
others  described  it.  Mrs.  Vincent  described  it 
after  dinner  in  the  house  of  the  Petways,  where 
she  had  dropped  in  casually  for  a  chat.  By  a 
curious  chance  Mr.  Dimple  had  also  dropped  in, 
so  that  the  fortunate  Petways  had  two  eyewit- 
nesses at  once.  The  Whittakers  came  in  in  the 
middle  of  the  story. 

And  they  all  agreed  that  it  was  a  surprising 
story  —  highly  surprising  as  it  affected  Mr.  Eg- 
erton, and  also  highly  unfavourable.  Dear  Mr. 
Byrne  had  given  his  evidence  in  his  usual  charming 
manner,  very  clear  and  straightforward  and  de- 
lightful :  very  anxious  to  help  the  Coroner  and  the 
jury,  in  spite  of  the  worry  about  poor  Mrs. 


The  House  by  the  River 

Byrne.     "  Very  pale,  he  was,"  said  Mrs.  Vincent. 
"  Overstrained,"  said  Mr.  Dimple. 

And  it  all  depended  on  this  sack,  you  see.  The 
girl  was  tied  up  in  the  sack.  Mrs.  Vincent  gave 
a  little  shiver.  "  Of  course,  it  was  all  rather  hor- 
rible, you  know,  but  — "  "  But  you  enjoyed  it 
thoroughly,"  thought  Whittaker. 

"  Mr.  Byrne  said  he  remembered  lending  the 
sack  to  Mr.  Egerton  —  to  collect  firewood  or 
something  —  you  know,  he's  always  poking  about 
in  that  silly  boat  of  his,  picking  up  sticks."  (The 
operation  as  described  by  Mrs.  Vincent  sounded 
incredibly  puerile  and  base.)  '  Then  the  Cor- 
oner asked  him  if  he  remembered  when.  Mr. 
Byrne  said  it  was  about  three  weeks  ago.  Then 
they  asked  was  it  before  or  after  the  day  that  this 
young  woman  disappeared.  You  could  have 
heard  a  pin  drop. 

"  I  was  really  sorry  for  Mr.  Byrne;  I  could  see 
he  didn't  like  it  a  bit.  He  didn't  answer  for  a 
little,  kind  of  hesitated,  then  he  said  it  was  about 
the  same  day  —  he  couldn't  be  sure;  and  that  was 
all  they  could  get  out  of  him  —  it  was  about  the 
same  day.  And  you  should  have  seen  Mr.  Eg- 
erton's  face." 

Mrs.  Vincent  paused  to  appreciate  the  effect 
of  her  narrative. 

'  Then  there  was  the  Byrnes'  young  woman, 
Mabel  Jones  or  some  such  name.  She  was  sent 
[138] 


The  House  by  the  River 

round  to  Mr.  Egerton's  to  ask  for  the  sack  — 
one  day  last  week.  And  she  said  —  what  was 
it  she  said,  Mr.  Dimple?" 

"  She  said  Mr.  Egerton  was  '  short  like  '  with 
her,  and  — " 

"  Ah  yes !  "  Mrs.  Vincent  hastened  to  resume 
the  reins.  "  He  was  '  short  like  '  and  a  bit  'uffy 
with  her;  and  he  said  he'd  lost  the  sack,  picking 
up  wood  —  lost  it  in  the  river.  .  .  . 

"  And  then  Mr.  Egerton  himself  was  put  in 
the  box  and  he  told  exactly  the  same  story!" 
Mrs.  Vincent  said  these  words  with  a  huge  iron- 
ical emphasis,  as  if  it  would  have  reflected  credit 
on  Mr.  Egerton  had  he  invented  an  entirely  new 
story  for  the  purposes  of  the  inquest. 

"  He  told  exactly  the  same  story,  and  he  told 
it  very  badly,  in  my  opinion  —  you  know,  hesi- 
tating and  mumbling,  as  if  he  was  keeping  some- 
thing back  —  and  looking  at  the  floor  all  the 
time." 

"  We  must  remember  he's  naturally  a  very  shy 
man,"  said  Mr.  Dimple,  "  and  a  public  inquest, 
at  the  best  — " 

'  Yes,  but  look  what  he  said  —  The  Coroner 
asked  him  the  same  question  —  when  was  it  he 
had  borrowed  the  sack  —  before  or  after  the 
young  woman  disappeared.  Mr.  Egerton  said 
he  really  didn't  know,  because  he  didn't  know 
when  the  young  woman  had  disappeared.  .  .  . 

[139] 


The  House  by  the  River 

As  if  we  didn't  all  know,  the  very  next  day.  .  .  ." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Dimple,  "  but  I  didn't 
know  myself,  not  till  one  day  last  week — and 
I  live  two  doors  from  the  Byrnes  — " 

"  Yes,  but  you're  a  man"  said  Mrs.  Vincent, 
with  a  large  contempt. 

"  So  is  Mr.  Egerton." 

Mrs.  Vincent  should  have  been  a  boxer. 
She  recovered  nobly. 

"  Anyhow,  he  didn't  impress  me,  and  he  didn't 
impress  the  Coroner.  The  Coroner  kept  at  him 
a  long  time,  trying  to  get  it  out  of  him,  how  he'd 
lost  the  sack  and  so  on.  Some  of  the  jury  asked 
questions  too.  They  couldn't  understand  about 
the  wood-collecting  and  what  he  wanted  firewood 
for  in  the  summer,  and  —  Oh  yes,  7  remember. 
He  said  it  must  have  slipped  off  the  boat,  you 
see,  and  been  picked  up  by  somebody.  Then 
they  asked  him  what  he  did  with  the  wood  when 
he  picked  it  up  —  did  he  put  it  in  the  sack  then 
and  there  or  what?  He  said  no,  he  just  threw  it 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  Then  the  Coroner 
said,  'When  did  you  put  it  in  the  sack?'  Mr. 
Egerton  said,  '  In  the  garden,  of  course,  to 
take  it  indoors.'  And  then,  you  see,  the  Coroner 
said,  '  Why  on  earth  did  he  take  the  sack  out  in 
the  boat  at  all? '  You  could  have  heard  a  — " 
Mrs.  Vincent  thought  better  of  it.  "  Mr.  Eger- 
ton couldn't  answer  that  —  he  just  looked  sheep- 
£140] 


The  House  by  the  River 

ish,  and  mumbled  something  about  '  he  forgot ! ' 

—  forgot,  indeed!  " 

Mrs.  Vincent  looked  at  Mr.  Dimple  —  a  tri- 
umphant, merciless  look. 

Mr.  Dimple  murmured  reflectively,  "  Yes  — 
that  was  odd  —  very  odd." 

"  And  as  for  that  Mrs.  Bantam  of  his,  the  old 
frump !  She  actually  swore  that  there'd  never 
been  a  sack  in  the  house !  Well,  it  stands  to  rea- 
son, if  Mr.  Egerton  borrowed  that  sack  to  collect 
wood  in,  she  must  have  seen  it,  unless  he  kept  it 
locked  up  somewhere  —  and  if  he  did  lock  it 
up  somewhere  —  well,  he  must  have  had  some 
funny  reason  for  it.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Vincent  shrugged  her  shoulders  expres- 
sively. 

"  So  that  didn't  do  him  any  good  —  especially 
as  she  cheeked  the  Coroner." 

"  And  what  was  the  verdict?  " 

"  Oh,  the  jury  were  very  quick  —  I  only  waited 
ten  minutes  or  so,  you  know,  just  on  the  chance 

—  and  when  they  came  back  they  said,  '  Wilful 
murder  against  somebody  unknown  ' —  or  some- 
thing like  that.     I  must  say,  I  was  surprised,  be- 
cause the  Coroner  was  very  down  on  Mr.  Eg- 
erton — " 

"  And  so  were  you,  I  gather,"  said  Mrs.  Whit- 
taker,  with  forced  calm;  the  Whittakers  liked 


The  House  by  the  River 

Egerton,  and  Mrs.  Vincent  was  slowly  bringing 
them  to  the  boil. 

"  Well,  if  you  ask  me,  I  really  don't  think  he 
comes  out  of  it  very  well.  Of  course,  I  know 
the  jury  didn't  say  anything  about  him,  but  — " 

"  And  that  being  so,  Mrs.  Vincent,  if  you  will 
allow  me  " —  Mr.  Dimple  at  last  cast  off  his 
judicial  detachment;  he  spoke  with  his  usual 
deprecating  and  kindly  air,  with  a  kind  of  halt- 
ing fluency  that  made  it  seem  as  if  his  sentences 
would  never  end  —  "  if  you  will  allow  me  —  er, 
as  a  lawyer  —  to  ah,  venture  a  little  advice  — 
that  being  so,  I  think  one  ought  to  be  careful  — 
not  to  say  anything  —  which  might  be  —  ah,  re- 
peated —  by  perhaps  thoughtless  people  —  of 
course  I  know  we  are  all  friends  here  —  and  pos- 
sibly misinterpreted  —  as  a  suggestion  —  that 
Mr.  Egerton's  part  in  this  affair  —  though  I 
know,  of  course,  that  there  were  —  er  —  puz- 
zling circumstances  —  about  the  evidence  —  I 
thought  so  myself  —  that  Mr.  Egerton's  part  — 
was  —  er  —  more  serious  —  than  one  is  entitled 
strictly  to  deduce  —  from  the  verdict  —  which  as 
you  say  —  Mrs.  Vincent  —  did  not  refer  to  him 
directly  in  any  way.  You  won't  mind  my  say- 
ing so,  will  you?  —  but  I  almost  think — " 

Mr.  Dimple  always  talked  like  that.  He  was 
a  noble  little  man,  with  a  thin,  peaked,  legal  coun- 
tenance and  mild  eyes  that  expressed  unutterable 
[142] 


The  House  by  the  River 

kindness  and  impartiality  to  the  whole  world. 
His  natural  benevolence  and  a  long  training  in  the 
law  had  produced  in  him  a  complete  incapacity 
for  downright  censure.  His  judgments  were  a 
tangle  of  parentheses;  and  people  said  that  if  he 
were  ever  raised  to  the  Bench  his  delivery  of  the 
death  sentence  would  generate  in  the  condemned 
person  a  positive  glow  of  righteousness  and  con- 
tent. He  never  "  thought  "  or  "  said  ";  he  only 
"  almost  thought  "  or  "  ventured  to  suggest  "  or 
"  hazarded  the  opinion,  subject  of  course  to  —  " 
And  this,  combined  with  his  habit  of  parenthesis 
and  periphrasis  and  polysyllaby  (if  there  is  a 
word  like  that),  made  his  utterances  of  almost  un- 
endurable duration.  He  was  one  of  those  men 
during  whose  anecdotes  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
keep  awake.  Polite  people,  who  knew  him  well 
and  honoured  him  for  the  goodness  of  his  heart 
and  the  charity  of  his  life,  sometimes  rebuked 
themselves  because  of  this  failure,  and  swore  to  be 
better  when  they  met  him  again.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  a  story  (and  he  had  many)  they  would 
say  to  themselves  firmly,  "  I  will  keep  awake  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  this  anecdote;  I  will  attend  to 
the  very  end;  I  will  understand  it  and  laugh  sin- 
cerely about  it."  Then  Mr.  Dimple  would  ram- 
ble off  into  his  genial  forest  of  qualifications  and 
brackets,  and  the  minds  of  his  hearers  imme- 
diately left  him;  they  thought  of  their  homes, 

[143] 


The  House  by  the  River 

or  their  work,  or  the  food  they  were  eating,  or  of 
the  clothes  of  some  other  person,  or  of  some  story 
they  intended  to  tell  when  Mr.  Dimple  had  done ; 
and  they  came  suddenly  out  of  their  dreams,  to 
find  Mr.  Dimple  yet  labouring  onward  to  his 
climax;  and  they  said,  with  shame  and  mortifica- 
tion, "  I  have  failed  again,"  and  laughed  very 
heartily  at  the  wrong  moment. 

Yet  people  loved  Mr.  Dimple;  and  if  it  was 
impossible  sometimes  to  deduce  from  what  he 
actually  said  what  it  was  he  actually  thought,  one 
was  often  able  to  make  a  good  guess  on  the  as- 
sumption that  he  never  wittingly  said  anything 
cruel  or  unkind  or  even  mildly  censorious  to  or 
about  anybody. 

Mr.  Whittaker  knew  this,  and  he  interrupted 
with: 

'  Thank  you,  Dimple  —  I  thoroughly  agree 
with  you  —  but  I  don't  think  you  go  nearly  far 
enough."  He  stood  up,  looking  very  severely 
at  Mrs.  Vincent.  "  I  think  it's  disgusting  to  say 
such  things  about  a  man  —  especially  about  a  man 
like  Egerton.  I  think  we  ought  to  get  home  now, 
Dorothy.  Good  night,  Mrs.  Petway." 

Mrs.  Petway  spluttered  feebly,  but  was  unable 
to  utter.  The  Whittakers  departed,  trailing 
clouds  of  anger. 

Mrs.  Vincent  assumed  an  air  of  injury. 
'  Well,  my  dear,  I'm  sure  I'm  sorry  if  I  said 
[H4] 


The  House  by  the  River 

anything  to  upset  them,  but  really  —  Of  course, 
I  know  I  don't  understand  the  law,  Mr.  Dimple, 
and  I  don't  want  to  be  unfair  to  any  man,  but 
one  must  use  one's  common  sense,  and  what  I 
think  is  that  Mr.  Egerton  made  away  with  that 
poor  girl,  and  that's  all  about  it." 

She  looked  defiantly  at  Mr.  Dimple.  Mr. 
Dimple  opened  his  mouth  and  shut  it  again. 
Then  he  went  away. 


[145] 


IX 

IT  is  to  be  regretted  that  very  many  of  The 
Chase  shared  the  views  of  Mrs.  Vincent. 
Mrs.  Vincent  was  a  tireless  propagandist  of 
her  own  views  about  other  people.  The  Whitta- 
kers,  and  the  Dimples,  and  the  Tathams,  and  all 
the  more  charitable  and  kindly  people  who  were 
faintly  shocked  but  unconvinced  by  the  whole  af- 
fair, preferred  not  to  talk  about  it  at  all.  So 
Mrs.  Vincent  steadily  gained  ground  and  John 
Egerton  became  a  dark  and  suspected  figure,  re- 
garded with  a  shuddering  horror  by  most  of  his 
neighbours.  He  found  this  out  very  soon  at  the 
Underground  station  in  the  mornings.  Here  on 
the  platform  there  were  always  many  of  The 
Chase,  watching  with  growing  irritation  the  non- 
stop trains  thundering  past,  and  meanwhile  chat- 
tering with  one  another  of  their  hopes  and  fears 
and  domestic  crises.  John  soon  found  that  men 
became  engrossed  in  advertisements  or  conversa- 
tions or  newspapers  as  he  approached,  or  sidled 
away  down  the  platform,  or  busily  lit  their  pipes. 
And  twice,  before  he  realized  what  was  in  their 
minds,  his  usual  "  Good  morning  "  was  met  with 
a  stony,  contemptuous  stare.  After  that  he  took 
[146] 


The  House  by  the  River 

to  avoiding  the  men  himself.  He  noticed  then 
that  the  burly  and  genial  ticket  collector  had  be- 
gun to  withhold  his  invariable  greeting  and  com- 
ment on  the  weather.  And  after  that  John  trav- 
elled by  bus  to  Hammersmith  and  took  the  train 
there.  Nobody  knew  him  there.  And  he  left  off 
walking  up  the  Square,  but  went  by  Red  Man  Lane, 
which  was  longer.  In  the  Square  he  might  meet 
anybody.  In  the  Square  everybody  knew  him. 
In  the  Square  he  felt  that  every  one  discussed 
him  as  he  passed;  the  women  chattering  at  their 
cottage  doors  lowered  their  voices,  he  was  sure, 
and  muttered  about  him.  The  milk-boys  stared 
at  him  unusually,  and  laughed  suddenly,  contemp- 
tuously, when  he  had  gone.  Or  so  he  thought. 
For  he  was  never  sure.  He  felt  sometimes  that 
he  would  like  to  stop  and  make  sure.  He  would 
like  to  say  to  the  two  young  women  with  the  bas- 
kets whom  he  passed  every  day,  "  I  believe  you 
were  saying  something  about  me.  ...  I  know 
what  it  was.  .  .  .  Well,  it's  all  rot.  ...  It 
was  another  man  did  it,  really.  ...  I  can't  ex- 
plain .  .  .  but  you've  no  right  to  look  at  me  like 
that."  He  longed  to  be  able  to  justify  himself, 
for  he  was  a  warm  and  sympathetic  soul,  and 
liked  to  be  on  terms  of  vague  friendliness  and  re- 
spect with  people  he  met  or  passed  in  the  streets 
or  dealt  with  daily  in  shops;  he  liked  saying 
"  Good  morning "  to  milkmen  and  porters  and 

[147] 


The  House  by  the  River 

policemen  and  paper-boys.  And  the  fear  that 
any  day  any  of  these  people  might  ignore  him  or 
insult  him  was  a  terrible  fear. 

Contrary  to  the  common-  belief,  it  is  more  dif- 
ficult for  an  innocent  man,  if  he  be  shy  and  sensi- 
tive, to  look  the  whole  world  in  the  face  than  it 
is  for  the  abandoned  evil-doer  with  his  guilt  fresh 
upon  him.  So  John  avoided  people  he  knew  as 
much  as  he  could.  He  avoided  even  his  friends. 
The  kindly  Whittakers  made  special  efforts  to 
bring  him  to  their  house.  They  urged  him  to 
come  in  on  their  Wednesday  evenings  that  they 
might  show  the  Vincents  and  the  Vincent  follow- 
ing what  decent  people  thought  of  him.  But  he 
would  not  go.  He  could  not  face  the  possibility 
of  a  public  insult  in  a  drawing-room,  some  de- 
grading, hot-cheeked,  horrible  "  scene." 

And  after  all,  it  was  only  for  a  little  time. 
Mrs.  Byrne  was  still  in  a  bad  way,  but  she  was 
"  out  of  the  wood,"  Mrs.  Bantam  said.  And 
when  she  was  quite  well,  Stephen  of  course  would 
somehow  manage  to  put  things  right,  in  spite 
of  his  extraordinary  conduct  at  the  inquest.  He 
did  not  see  Stephen  for  ten  days  after  the  inquest. 
He  had  felt  sometimes  that  he  would  like  to  see 
him,  would  like  to  tell  him  how  awkward  he  had 
made  things  by  the  way  he  had  given  his  evidence. 
But  it  seemed  hardly  fair  to  worry  him.  He 
must  be  worried  enough,  as  it  was,  poor  man. 
[148] 


The  House  by  the  River 

And  John  felt  that  he  would  never  be  able  to  ap- 
proach the  topic  without  seeming  to  be  question- 
ing Stephen's  loyalty.  And  he  did  not  want  to 
do  that.  He  was  quite  sure  that  Stephen  had 
never  meant  to  put  things  as  he  had.  It  was 
nervousness;  and  the  muddle-headedness  that 
comes  from  too  much  thinking,  too  much  planning, 
and  the  musty,  intimidating  atmosphere  of  the 
Coroner's  Court,  and  the  stupid  badgering  of  the 
smug  Coroner.  Probably  Stephen  had  hardly 
known  what  he  was  saying.  He  himself  had  felt 
like  that.  And  Stephen  had  had  far  more  reason 
for  nervousness  in  that  place.  When  Margery 
was  better,  he  would  go  round  and  see  Stephen, 
and  Stephen  would  "  do  the  right  thing."  That 
was  his  own  phrase.  Meanwhile,  people  must  be 
avoided,  and  Mrs.  Bantam  was  a  great  comfort. 
Mrs.  Bantam  had  shown  herself  a  loyal  and  de- 
voted soul.  She,  at  least,  had  perfect  faith  in 
him.  There  had  never  been  a  sack  in  this  house, 
that  she  knew.  And  that  was  all  about  it. 
Since  her  spirited  appearance  in  the  Coroner's 
Court,  her  inter-prandial  addresses  were  confined 
to  two  themes  —  the  ineptitude  of  the  law  and  the 
high  character  of  her  employer.  She  was  weari- 
some, but  she  was  very  soothing  to  the  injured 
pride  of  a  shy  man  who  conceived  himself  as  the 
detested  byword  of  West  London. 

There  was  one  other  spark  of  comfort.     The 

[149] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Tarrants  were  away  in  the  country  and  had  missed 
all  this.  But  Mrs.  Vincent  was  a  friend  of  Mrs. 
Tarrant  and  would  no  doubt  write  to  her.  John 
wondered  whether  he  ought  to  write  to  Muriel 
Tarrant.  He  did  not  think  so.  They  were  not 
really  on  writing  terms. 

And  in  the  big  room  over  the  river,  where  the 
blinds  were  always  down,  but  the  sun  thrust 
through  in  brilliant  slices  at  the  corners,  Margery 
Byrne  lay  very  still  —  sleeping  and  thinking, 
sleeping  and  thinking,  of  Stephen  and  Michael 
Hilary  and  Joan,  but  chiefly  of  Stephen.  In  the 
morning  and  in  the  evening  he  came  up  and  sat 
with  her  for  an  hour,  and  he  was  very  tender  and 
solicitous.  She  saw  that  he  was  pale  and  weary 
looking,  with  anxious  eyes,  and  she  was  touched 
and  secretly  surprised  that  her  illness  should  have 
make  him  look  like  this.  Indeed,  it  pleased  her. 
But  she  told  him  that  he  must  worry  about  her 
no  more;  she  told  him  he  must  eat  enough,  and 
not  „  sit  up  working  too  late.  Then  she  would 
say  that  she  wanted  to  sleep,  lest  he  should  be- 
come fidgety  or  bored  with  sitting  in  the  darkened 
room.  She  would  kiss  him  very  fondly,  and  fol- 
low him  with  her  eyes  while  he  walked  softly  to 
the  door.  Then  she  would  lie  in  a  happy  dream 
listening  to  the  birds  in  the  ivy,  and  the  soft 
river-sounds,  the  distant  cries  of  the  bargemen, 
and  the  melancholy  whistle  of  tugs,  and  the  ripple 
[ISO] 


The  House  by  the  River 

of  their  wash  about  the  moored  boats;  she  would 
lie  and  listen  and  make  huge  plans  for  the  future 
—  infinite,  impossible,  contradictory  plans.  And 
the  centre  of  all  of  them  was  Stephen. 

And  Stephen  would  go  down  into  the  warm 
study  and  sit  down  in  the  sunny  window  and  write. 
Ever  since  that  Sunday  morning  when  the  detec- 
tive came  with  the  sack  he  had  been  writing.  It 
was  extraordinary  that  he  was  able  to  write. 
He  knew  that  it  was  extraordinary.  Sometimes 
he  sat  in  the  evening  and  tried  to  understand  it. 
In  that  fearful  time  before  the  detective  came,  and 
most  of  all  in  those  terrible  days  when  Emily 
Gaunt  was  drifting  irrecoverably  up  and  down  in 
the  river,  no  conceivable  power  could  have  wrung 
from  him  a  single  line.  He  could  no  more  have 
written  poetry  than  he  could  have  written  a  scien- 
tific treatise.  But  now,  amazingly,  he  could  com- 
mand the  spirit,  the  idea,  the  concentration  —  ev- 
erything; he  could  become  absorbed,  could  lose 
himself  in  his  work.  The  idea  he  was  working  on 
had  been  with  him  for  a  long  time;  he  had  made 
notes  for  the  poem  many  weeks  back,  long  before 
Emily  had  come  to  the  house;  he  had  written  a 
few  lines  of  it  just  before  she  left  it.  But  one 
wanted  more  than  ideas  to  do  good  work  of  that 
kind ;  one  must  have  —  what  was  it  ?  — "  peace  of 
mind,"  presumably.  There  must  be  no  tempers, 


The  House  by  the  River 

or  terrors,  or  worries  in  the  mind.  And,  one 
would  have  thought,  no  remorse,  no  pricking  of 
conscience.  But  perhaps  that  did  not  matter. 
For  otherwise  how  could  he  now  have  "  peace  of 
mind"?  Stephen  felt  that  his  conscience  was 
working;  he  was  sorry  for  what  he  had  done  — 
truly  sorry.  He  was  sorry  for  poor  old  John. 
But  it  did  not  trouble  him  when  he  sat  down  in 
the  sunshine  to  write.  He  could  forget  it  then. 
But  that  day  when  the  baby  came,  when  he  had 
seen  the  sack  go  past  and  chased  it  in  the  boat, 
and  the  next  day  when  Emily  was  still  at  large, 
drifting  bulkily  for  the  first  police-boat  to  see  — 
on  those  days  he  could  not  have  forgotten.  He 
had  been  afraid  —  afraid  for  Margery,  and  afraid 
for  himself.  And  now,  somehow,  he  was  not 
afraid.  Why  was  that?  Distressing  things,  ap- 
palling things,  might  still  happen,  but  he  was  not 
disturbed  by  them.  The  day  after  the  inquest 
he  had  been  a  little  disturbed;  he  had  not  been 
able  to  settle  down  to  work  that  day;  he  had 
wandered  vaguely  up  and  down  the  house,  had 
sat  in  the  garden  a  little,  had  rowed  in  the  boat 
a  little  —  restless;  and  he  had  slept  badly.  But 
the  next  day  he  had  worked  successfully  many 
hours.  In  a  little  diary  he  kept  a  record  of  work 
—  so  many  hours,  such  and  such  a  poem,  so  many 
hundreds  of  words.  All  these  weeks  he  had  au- 
tomatically made  the  entries  as  usual,  and  from 


The  House  by  the  River 

Sunday,  ist  June,  the  figures  moved  steadily  up- 
ward. After  the  5th  there  was  a  distinct  bound 
—  seven  hours  on  the  6th.  June  ist  was  the 
day  the  policeman  came  —  the  day  he  had  told 
the  policeman  about  John  —  almost  by  accident, 
he  felt.  Yes;  he  had  not  meant  anything  then. 
And  the  4th  was  the  day  of  the  inquest  —  the  day 
he  had  made  all  those  other  suggestions  about 
John  —  quite  intentionally  —  and  cleverly,  too. 
That  was  the  secret  of  it,  of  course,  that  was 
the  real  foundation  of  his  peace  of  mind  —  the 
way  he  had  managed  to  entangle  John  in  the 
affair.  He  had  John  hopelessly  entangled  now. 
It  was  strange  how  it  had  worked  out.  In  the 
beginning  he  had  honestly  intended  "  to  do  the 
right  thing."  Or  he  believed  he  had.  From  the 
time,  at  any  rate,  that  John  had  become  seriously 
involved,  he  had  really  meant  to  "  own  up  "  as 
soon  as  Margery  was  well  enough.  Probably  it 
would  have  meant  suicide,  he  remembered  —  a 
long  time  ago  it  seemed  —  thinking  of  that;  but 
he  was  going  to  do  something.  And  then  the  in- 
spiration and  the  chance  had  come  hand  in  hand 
that  Sunday  morning  to  show  him  a  better  way. 
It  was  a  better  way.  He  knew  quite  certainly  now 
that  he  would  never  own  up  —  not  even  if  Mar- 
gery was  to  die.  He  would  never  say  a  word 
to  clear  John's  character.  He  had  a  fairly  clear 
idea  now  of  what  would  happen.  There  would 

[153] 


The  House  by  the  River 

(he  hoped)  be  no  further  proceedings;  the  evi- 
dence was  too  thin.  All  that  John  would  suffer 
would  be  this  local  gossip  and  petty  suspicion; 
and  he  would  have  to  live  that  down.  John 
would  not  mind  —  a  good  fellow,  John.  But 
if  he  did  mind,  if  he  ever  showed  signs  of  ex- 
pecting to  be  cleared,  if  he  ever  suggested  a  con- 
fession or  any  rubbish  of  that  sort,  the  answer 
would  be  simple :  "  Really,  my  dear  John,  the 
evidence  is  so  strong  against  you  that  I  don't 
really  think  I  should  be  believed  now  if  I  said  / 
did  it.  And  you  must  remember,  John,  you've 
anyhow  sworn  all  sorts  of  things  on  your  oath 
that  you'd  have  to  explain  away  —  the  Civil 
Service  wouldn't  like  that  —  perjury,  you  know. 
Of  course,  if  you  want  me,  John  —  but  I  really 
think  it  would  be  better  from  your  point  of 
view  —  I  only  want  to  do  the  best  for  you, 
John—" 

He  could  hear  himself  solemnly  developing  the 
argument;  and  he  could  see  John  bowing  to  his 
judgment,  acquiescing. 

If  he  didn't  acquiesce;  if  he  made  trouble,  or  if 
the  police  made  trouble  —  but  Stephen  preferred 
not  to  think  of  that.  Yet  if  it  did  happen  he 
would  be  ready.  If  it  was  oath  against  oath, 
with  the  scales  weighted  already  against  John, 
he  knew  who  would  be  believed. 

And,  after  all,  John  Egerton,  good  fellow  as  he 
[154] 


The  House  by  the  River 

was,  would  leave  but  a  tiny  gap  in  the  world. 
What  were  his  claims  on  life?  What  had  he  to 
give  to  mankind?  A  single  man,  parents  dead, 
an  obscure  Civil  Servant,  at  five  hundred  a  year 

—  a  mere  machine,  incapable  of  creation,  easily 
replaced,  perhaps  not  even  missed.     What  was 
he  worth  to  the  world  beside  the  great  Stephen 
Byrne?     Supposing    they    both    died    now,    how 
would   their   obituary  notices   compare?     John's 

—  but  John  would  not  have  one ;  his  death  would 
be  announced  on  the  front  page  of  the  newspapers. 
But  about  himself  there  would  be  half-columns. 
He  knew  what  they  would  say:     "  Tragic  death 
of  a  young  poet  still   in  his  prime  .  .  .   Keats 
.  .   .  unquestionable  stamp  of  genius  ...  a  loss 
that  cannot  be  measured  .  .   .  best  work  still  un- 
written .   .   .  engaged,  we  understand  .   .  .  new 
poem  .  .  .  would  have   set  the  seal  .  .  ."   and 
so  on. 

And  it  would  all  be  true.  Wasn't  it  right, 
then,  that  if  the  choice  had  ever  to  be  made,  he, 
Stephen  Byrne,  should  be  chosen,  should  be  al- 
lowed to  live  and  enrich  the  world?  It  was 
curious  that  never  before  had  he  so  clearly  appre- 
ciated his  own  value  to  humanity.  Somehow, 
he  had  never  thought  of  himself  in  that  way. 
This  business  had  brought  it  home  to  him. 

Anyhow,  he  must  get  on  with  this  poem.     It  was 
going  to  be  a  big  thing.     The  more  he  wrote, 

[155] 


The  House  by  the  River 

the  more  it  excited  him;  and  the  more  contented 
he  became  with  the  work  he  was  doing,  the  more 
satisfied  he  was  with  his  material  circumstances, 
the  more  sure  that  all  would  be  well  for  him 
with  the  Emily  affair. 

This  is  the  way  of  many  writers.  Their  muses 
and  their  moods  react  upon  each  other  in  a  kind 
of  unending  circle.  When  they  are  unhappy  they 
cannot  write;  but  when  they  are  busy  with  writ- 
ing, and  they  know  that  it  is  good,  they  grow 
happier  and  happier.  Then  when  they  have  fin- 
ished and  the  first  intoxication  of  achievement  has 
worked  itself  out,  depression  comes  again.  And 
then,  while  they  are  yet  too  exhausted  for  a  new 
effort,  all  their  work  seems  futile  and  worthless, 
and  all  life  a  meaningless  blank.  And  until  the 
next  creative  impulse  restores  their  confidence  and 
vigour  they  are,  comparatively,  miserable. 

Stephen  Byrne  was  peculiarly  sensitive  to  these 
reactions.  He  had  that  creative  itch  which  besets 
especially  the  young  writer  with  his  wings  still 
strange  and  wonderful  upon  him.  At  the  end  of 
a  day  in  which  he  had  written  nothing  new,  he 
went  to  bed  with  a  sense  of  frustration,  of  failure 
and  emptiness.  There  was  something  missing. 
For  weeks  on  end  he  wrote  something  every  day, 
some  new  created  thing,  if  it  was  only  a  single 
verse,  apart  from  the  routine  work  of  criticism 
and  review-writing  and  odd  journalism  with  which 
[156] 


The  House  by  the  River 

he  helped  to  keep  his  family  alive.  But  ideas 
do  not  come  continually  to  any  man;  and  when 
they  come,  the  weary  mind  is  not  always  ready 
to  shape  them.  There  were  long  periods  of  bar- 
renness or  stagnancy  when  Stephen  could  write 
nothing.  Sometimes  the  ideas  came  copiously 
enough,  but  hovered  like  maddening  ghosts  just 
out  of  his  grasp,  clearly  seen,  but  unattainable. 
Sometimes  they  came  not  at  all.  In  either  case, 
like  a  good  artist,  Stephen  made  no  attempt  to 
force  the  unwilling  growth,  but  let  himself  lie  fal- 
low for  a  little.  But  all  these  fallow  times  he 
was  restless  and  half-content.  He  had  the  sense, 
somehow,  of  failure.  He  became  moody  and  ir- 
ritable, and  silent  at  meals.  But  when  the  crea- 
tive fit  was  upon  him,  when  he  had  made  some 
little  poem,  or  was  still  hot  and  busy  at  a  long 
one,  the  world  was  benevolent  and  good,  life  was 
a  happy  adventure,  and  Stephen  talked  like  a 
small  boy  at  dinner-time. 

So  this  poem  he  was  working  at  was  an  im- 
portant thing.  The  "  idea  "  was  comparatively 
old.  It  had  come  to  him  in  a  fallow  time,  and 
had  been  stored  somewhere  away.  When  the 
policeman's  visit  restored  his  tranquillity,  the 
fallow  time  was  over.  The  idea  was  ready  to 
hand,  and  he  had  only  to  take  it  out  and  sow  it 
and  water  it.  And  as  it  grew  and  blossomed  un- 
der his  hand,  it  commanded  him.  It  made  him 

[157] 


The  House  by  the  River 

superior  to  circumstance;  it  decorated  his  for- 
tunes and  made  them  hopeful  and  benign.  Noth- 
ing could  be  harmful  or  disturbing  while  he  was 
doing  such  good  work  every  day.  It  made  him 
sure  that  he  was  right  —  sure  that  his  decisions 
were  wise.  It  made  him  see  that  no  good  pur- 
pose would  be  served  by  telling  the  world  the 
truth  about  Emily  Gaunt  and  about  John  Eger- 
ton.  So  he  went  on  writing. 

But  there  was  another  curious  thing  about  this 
poem.  It  was  a  kind  of  epic,  an  immensely  dar- 
ing, ambitious  affair.  The  war  came  into  it,  but 
it  was  not  about  the  war.  Rather  it  was  a  great 
song  of  the  chivalry  and  courage  of  the  men  and 
women  of  our  time  wherever  these  have  appeared. 
There  were  battles  in  it,  and  the  sea  was  in  it, 
and  something  of  the  obscure  gallantry  of  hidden 
or  humble  men;  and  something  also  of  the  imper- 
ishable heroisms  that  did  not  belong  to  the  war 
—  Scott's  last  voyage  and  Shackleton's  voyage, 
and  the  amazing  braveries  of  the  air. 

And  day  by  day,  as  he  sat  there  in  the  sun, 
glorifying,  page  by  page,  the  high  qualities  of 
these  men,  their  courage  and  their  truth  and 
straightness,  he  was  conscious  distantly  of  the 
strange  contradiction  between  what  he  was  doing 
and  what  he  was.  He  stopped  sometimes  and 
thought,  "This  is  sincere  work  that  I  am  doing; 
I  mean  it;  it  excites  me;  the  critics,  whatever  they 
[158] 


The  House  by  the  River 

say,  will  say  that  it  is  sincere  and  noble  writing. 
Parents  in  the  days  to  come  may  make  their  chil- 
dren read  it  as  an  exhortation  to  manliness  and 
truth.  They  may  even  say  that  I  was  a  noble 
character  myself.  .  .  .  And  all  the  time  I  am 
doing  a  mean  and  dirty  thing  —  a  cowardly  thing. 
And  I  don't  care.  My  life  is  a  lie,  and  this  poem 
is  a  lie,  but  I  don't  care;  it  is  good  work." 

All  that  June  the  weather  was  very  lovely.  In 
the  busy  streets  the  air  grew  heavy  and  stifling, 
full  of  dust  and  the  vile  fumes  of  motor  buses. 
They  were  like  prisons.  But  by  the  river  there 
was  always  a  sense  of  freshness  and  freedom; 
and  when  the  great  tide  swept  up  in  the  evenings 
a  gentle  breeze  came  in  light  breaths  from  the 
west  and  fingered  and  fondled  the  urgent  water, 
making  it  into  a  patchwork  of  rippled  places 
and  smooth  places,  where  there  swam  for  a  little 
in  a  fugitive  glow  of  amber  and  rose  the  small 
clouds  over  the  Richmond  Hills.  Then  it  was 
cool  and  strengthening  to  sit  in  a  small  boat  and 
drink  the  breeze,  and  Stephen  always,  when  the 
tide  was  up,  would  row  out  into  the  ripples  to 
see  the  big  sun  go  down  behind  Hammerton 
Church.  And  while  the  boat  rocked  gently  on 
the  wash  of  tugs,  he  would  sit  motionless,  trying 
to  store  the  sunset  in  his  mind.  He  would  look 
at  the  lights  in  the  water,  the  unimaginable  pat- 
tern and  colouring  of  the  clouds,  fretted  like  the 


The  House  by  the  River 

sand  when  the  sea  goes  out,  consciously  realizing, 
consciously  memorizing,  thinking,  "  I  must  re- 
member how  that  looked!"  For  he  was  not 
naturally  observant,  and  often,  he  knew,  made  up 
for  his  lack  of  observation  by  his  power  of  im- 
agining. But  the  critics  said  he  was  observant, 
and  observant  he  was  determined  to  be. 

Or  he  would  row  across  to  the  eastern  end  of 
the  Island  and  tie  his  boat  to  the  single  willow 
tree  that  stood  there.  From  this  point,  looking 
eastward,  you  saw  the  whole  of  the  splendid 
reach,  curving  magnificently  away  to  Hammer- 
smith Bridge.  You  saw  the  huddled,  irregular 
houses  beside  it  glowing  golden  in  the  last  sun- 
light, with  here  and  there  a  window  that  blazed 
at  you  like  a  furnace;  you  saw  the  fine  old  trees 
on  the  southern  bank  and  the  tall  chimneys  and 
the  distant  church  that  had  something  of  the 
grace  of  Magdalen  Tower,  and  you  saw  the  wide 
and  exuberant  stream  with  an  impression  of  big- 
ness and  dignity  which  could  never  be  commanded 
from  the  bank;  and  you  saw  it  rich  with  colour 
and  delicate  lights  —  with  steel-blue  and  gold  — 
with  copper  and  with  rose.  You  knew  that  it 
was  a  thick  and  muddy  stream,  that  most  of  the 
houses  were  squalid  houses,  and  many  of  the 
buildings  were  ugly  buildings.  But  they  were 
all  beautiful  in  the  late  sun,  and  Stephen  loved 
them, 
[i  60] 


The  House  by  the  River 

And  while  he  sat  there,  the  poem  hovered  al- 
ways in  the  background  of  his  mind.  Everything 
he  saw  he  saw  as  material  which  might  somehow 
take  its  place  in  the  poem.  Sometimes  half-con- 
sciously  he  was  shaping  ahead  the  scheme  of  what 
he  had  next  to  do,  the  general  form  and  sequence 
of  it;  and  sometimes  there  was  a  line  that  would 
not  come  right,  a  word  or  a  phrase  that  would  not 
surrender  itself,  and  this  problem  would  be  al- 
ways busy  in  his  head,  the  alternatives  chasing 
each  other  in  a  tumbling  perpetual  circle.  Some- 
times he  would  go  into  the  house  again  in  a  vague 
depression,  simply  because  this  difficulty  had  not 
yet  resolved  itself. 

But  there  were  certain  evenings  of  such  peace 
and  quiet  dignity  that  he  was  stricken  with  a  brief 
and  unwilling  remorse.  Then  the  poem  was  at 
last  thrust  out  of  his  mind;  then  he  thought  of 
Margery  and  the  wrong  he  had  done  her,  and  of 
John  and  the  wrong  he  was  doing  him,  and  shame 
took  hold  of  him.  At  these  moments  he  had  an 
impulse  to  abandon  his  plans,  to  forget  his  poem 
and  his  ambitions  and  his  love  of  life,  and  give 
himself  up  suddenly  to  the  police.  This  was  usu- 
ally when  the  sun  was  yet  warm  and  wonderful. 
But  when  the  sun  had  gone,  and  he  had  come  back 
into  the  dark  and  silent  garden,  this  mood  de- 
parted quickly.  Fear  came  back  to  him  then,  the 
love  of  warmth  and  light  and  comfort  and  life, 

[161] 


The  House  by  the  River 

and  with  that  the  love  of  praise  and  the  desire 
of  success.  And  then  he  would  think  passionately 
again  of  his  poem;  he  would  snatch,  as  it  were 
in  self-defence,  at  the  pride  and  excitement  of 
his  purpose,  and  comfort  his  soul  with  new  assur- 
ances of  his  own  exceeding  worth. 

And  when  he  had  recaptured  that  consoling 
invigorating  mood,  the  great  contradiction  would 
smite  him  with  a  fresh  and  glorious  force,  the 
contradiction  of  his  personal  vileness  and  the 
beauty  and  nobility  of  the  work  which  he  was  do- 
ing. Then  as  he  sat  down  in  the  bright  island  of 
light  at  his  fable,  he  would  think  again,  with  a 
kind  of  conceited  malice,  of  the  blind  and  stupid 
world  which  judged  a  man  by  his  work  —  which 
would  slobber  over  a  murderer  and  a  liar  and 
a  betrayer  of  friends  simply  because  he  could  write 
good  verse  about  good  men. 

And  sometimes  he  even  formed  this  thought 
into  an  arrogant  phrase,  "  They  think  they  know 
me,  the  damned  fools  —  but  they  don't !  " 

Then  he  would  go  on  with  the  noble  poem. 
And  Margery  Byrne  lay  silent  alone  in  the  cool 
bedroom,  thinking  of  Stephen. 


[162] 


X 

SO  the  weeks  went  by.  And  John  and 
Stephen  saw  little  of  each  other.  Indeed, 
they  saw  little  of  any  one.  Then,  towards 
the  end  of  June,  Margery  Byrne  got  up  for  the 
first  time,  and  little  Joan  came  home  from  her 
grandmother's.  In  a  week  Margery  was  com- 
pletely and  delightedly  "  up,"  full  of  plans  and 
longing  to  take  up  life  exactly  where  she  had  left 
it.  Stephen  found  her  curiously  eager  for  com- 
pany, and  especially  the  company  of  old  friends; 
it  seemed  to  her  so  long  since  she  had  seen  them. 
Very  soon  she  asked  why  John  Egerton  was  so 
neglecting  them.  "  Get  him  to  come  round, 
Stephen,"  she  said.  "  Ring  him  up  now." 
Stephen  had  lately  told  her  the  story  of  the  in- 
quest, of  the  local  feeling  and  faction;  and  Mar- 
gery had  at  once  determined  that  she  would  think 
nothing  of  it.  She  would  do  as  the  Whittakers 
did;  not  that  she  was  prepared  in  any  case  to 
believe  evil  of  John.  Yet  at  the  back  of  her 
mind  there  was  just  a  hint  of  curiosity  about  it. 

So  Stephen  reluctantly  rang  him  up  —  reluct- 
antly because  he  had  wanted  to  work  that  evening, 


The  House  by  the  River 

and  because  he  feared  this  meeting.  But  he  did 
not  dare  to  seem  unwilling. 

And  John  Egerton  came.  He  had  known  for 
some  days  that  he  would  soon  have  to  do  it,  and 
he,  too,  had  been  afraid.  But  this  evening  he 
was  almost  glad  of  the  invitation.  The  long 
weeks  of  semi-isolation  had  tried  him  very  se- 
verely. The  sense  of  being  an  outcast  from  his 
fellows,  suspected,  despised,  had  grown  unreason- 
ably and  was  a  perpetual  irritant  to  the  nerves. 
He  had  an  aching  to  go  again  into  a  friend's 
house,  to  sit  and  talk  again  with  other  men.  And 
even  the  house  of  the  Byrnes  and  the  company  of 
the  Byrnes  might  be  a  soothing  relief  from  his 
present  loneliness. 

And  now  that  Margery  was  up  and  well,  the 
time  was  surely  near  when  something  would  be 
done  about  this  business.  Unpleasant  things  had 
happened.  The  family  of  the  Gaunts  had  been 
to  see  him.  They  had  come  again  this  evening  — 
in  the  middle  of  supper  —  sly,  grasping,  malicious 
people,  a  decayed  husband  of  about  fifty  with  a 
drooping,  ragged  moustache,  with  watery  eyes 
and  the  aspect  of  a  wet  rat,  and  an  upright,  ag- 
gressive, spiteful  little  wife,  with  an  antique  bon- 
net fixed  very  firmly  on  the  extreme  summit  of 
her  yellowish  hair.  She  had  thin  lips,  a  harsh 
voice,  and  an  unpleasant  manner.  There  was 
also  a  meek  son  of  about  twenty,  and  Emily's 
[164] 


The  House  by  the  River 

fiance,  who  looked  conscientiously  sad  and  respec- 
table and  wore  a  bowler  hat.  But  the  woman  did 
all  the  talking.  The  men  only  interposed  when 
they  felt  that  she  was  going  too  far  to  be  effective. 

They  wanted  money.  The  men  might  be  half- 
ashamed  of  wanting  it,  but  they  wanted  it,  and 
they  clearly  expected  to  get  it.  They  assumed  as 
common  ground  that  John  had  made  away  with 
Emily  and  had  only  been  preserved  from  arrest 
by  the  strange  eccentricities  of  the  law.  They  did 
not  want  trouble  made,  but  there  it  was:  Emily 
had  been  a  good  daughter  to  them  and  had  con- 
tributed money  to  the  household;  and  it  was  only 
fair  that  something  should  be  done  to  heal  the  in- 
jury to  their  affections  and  their  accounts.  If 
not,  of  course,  there  would  have  to  be  trouble. 

John  Egerton,  disgusted  and  humiliated,  had 
nobly  kept  his  temper,  but  firmly  refused  to  give 
them  a  penny.  They  had  gone  away,  muttering  v 
threats.  John  had  no  idea  what  they  would  do, 
but  they  filled  him  with  loathing  and  fear.  He 
could  not  endure  this  much  longer  for  any  man's 
sake.  Stephen  must  release  him. 

But  the  evening  at  the  Byrnes'  house  did  noth- 
ing to  clear  things  up.  Rather  it  aggravated  the 
tangle.  Mrs.  Byrne  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  look- 
ing more  fragile  yet  more  delicious  than  he  had 
ever  seen  her.  She  greeted  him  very  kindly  and 
they  talked  for  a  little,  while  Stephen  sat  rather 


The  House  by  the  River 

glumly  in  the  window-seat  staring  out  at  the  river. 
She  spoke  happily  of  Stephen  Michael  Hilary 
Byrne,  of  his  charm  and  his  intelligence,  and  how 
already  he  really  had  something  of  Stephen  about 
him;  and  as  she  said  that  she  smiled  at  Stephen. 
And  she  leaned  back  with  a  little  sigh  of  content 
and  looked  round  at  her  drawing-room,  rich  with 
warm  and  comfortable  colour,  at  the  striped  ma- 
terial of  delicate  purple,  at  the  Japanese  prints  she 
had  bought  with  Stephen  at  a  sale,  at  the  curious 
but  excellent  wall-paper  of  dappled  grey,  and  the 
pleasant  rows  of  books  on  the  white  shelves,  at 
the  flowers  in  the  Chinese  bowl  which  Stephen 
had  bought  for  her  in  some  old  shop,  and  the 
mass  of  roses  on  the  shiny  Sheraton  table;  then 
she  looked  out  through  the  window  at  the  red 
light  of  a  tug  sliding  mysteriously  down  through 
the  steely  dark  and  back  again  at  Stephen.  And 
John  knew  that  she  was  counting  up  her  happi- 
ness; and  he  thought  with  an  intense  pity  and  rage 
how  precarious  that  happiness  was.  He  realized 
then  that  he  could  not  allow  Stephen  to  "  do  the 
right  thing  " ;  he  would  not  press  for  it.  After 
all,  it  was  a  small  thing  for  himself  to  suffer,  this 
petty  local  suspicion,  even  the  visitations  of  the 
Gaunts,  compared  with  the  suffering  which  this 
dear  and  delicate  lady  would  have  to  bear  if  the 
truth  were  told.  Surely  it  was  an  easy  sacrifice 
for  a  man  to  make. 
[166] 


The  House  by  the  River 

So  John  sat  glowing  with  sentiment  and  reso- 
lution, and  Margery  pondered  the  happiness  of 
life,  and  Stephen  brooded  darkly  in  the  window, 
and  they  were  all  silent.  Then  Margery  sug- 
gested that  the  two  men  should  sing  together  as 
they  used  to  do;  and  they  sang.  They  sang  odd 
things  from  an  Old  English  song  book,  picked  out 
at  random  as  they  turned  over  the  leaves.  And 
it  seemed  as  if  every  song  in  that  book  must  have 
for  those  two  some  hidden  and  sinister  meaning. 
It  was  bad  enough,  in  any  case,  to  stand  there  to- 
gether behind  Margery  at  the  piano,  and  try  to 
sing  as  they  had  sung  in  the  old  days,  when  noth- 
ing had  happened.  But  these  songs  had  some 
terrible  innuendoes:  "  Blow,  blow,  thou  winter 
wind,"  they  sang  first,  and  "  Sigh  no  more,  ladies." 
And  when  they  came  to  "  a  friend's  ingratitude  " 
and  "  fellowship  forgot "  and  "  Men  were  de- 
ceivers ever,"  the  two  men  became  foolishly  self- 
conscious.  They  looked  studiously  in  front  of 
them,  and  each  in  his  heart  hoped  that  the  other 
had  not  noticed,  hoped  that  his  own  expression 
was  perfectly  normal  and  composed.  It  was  ex- 
ceedingly foolish.  There  were  other  songs  like 
this,  and  after  a  few  more  Stephen  said  shortly 
that  that  was  enough. 

Then  they  tried  to  talk  again;  but  the  men 
could  think  of  no  topic  which  did  not  somehow 
lead  them  near  to  Emily  Gaunt  and  such  dan- 


The  House  by  the  River 

gerous  ground.  Even  when  Margery  began  to 
speak  of  the  motor-boat,  the  men  seemed  to  be 
stricken  silly  and  dumb.  Margery  wondered 
what  ailed  them,  till  she  remembered  about  John's 
"  wood-collecting  "  evidence,  and  blushed  suddenly 
at  her  folly. 

Stephen  went  down  with  John  to  the  front 
door  feeling  certain  that  he  would  there  and 
then  "  have  it  out."  But  John  said  nothing,  only 
a  quick  "  Good  night."  He  did  not  look  at 
Stephen.  They  felt  then  like  strangers  to  each 
other.  And  Stephen,  marvelling  at  John's 
silence  and  strangely  moved  by  his  coldness,  be- 
came suddenly  anxious  to  get  at  his  thoughts. 

He  said,  "  John  —  I  —  I  —  I  hope  you're  not 
.  .  .  hadn't  I  better  ...  I  —  I  mean  .  .  .  are 
you  being  worried  much  ...  by  this  .  .  .  ?  " 

His  vagueness  was  partly  due  to  a  new  and  gen- 
uine nervousness  and  partly  to  calculation  —  a 
half-conscious  determination  not  to  commit  him- 
self. But  John  perfectly  understood. 

"  No,  Stephen,  we'll  forget  all  that  .  .  . 
you're  not  to  do  anything.  .  .  .  It's  a  bit  trying, 
but  I  can  stand  it.  I  don't  want  to  upset  things 
any  more  now.  .  .  .  Margery  and  you  ...  a 
fresh  start,  you  know.  .  .  .  Good  night." 
And  he  was  gone. 

Stephen  went  slowly  upstairs,  astonished  and 
ashamed,  with  a  confused  sense  of  humiliation 
[168] 


The  House  by  the  River 

and  relief.  And  while  he  felt  penitent  and  mean 
in  the  face  of  this  magnanimity  of  John's,  he 
could  not  avoid  a  certain  conceited  contentment 
with  the  wisdom  and  success  of  his  planning. 

Yes,  it  was  very  satisfactory.  And  now  he 
could  get  on  with  the  poem  about  "  Chivalry." 
He  sat  down  at  his  table  and  pulled  out  the  scrib- 
bled muddle  of  manuscript.  But  he  wrote  no 
word  that  night.  He  sat  for  a  long  time  staring 
at  the  paper,  thinking  of  the  chivalry  of  John 
Egerton.  And  it  brought  no  inspiration. 


XI 


JOHN  went  home  thinking  pitifully  of  Mar- 
gery Byrne  and  vowing  hotly  that  he  would 
sacrifice  himself  for  her  sake.  In  the  hall 
he  found  a  letter  from  Miss  Muriel  Tarrant. 
The  neat  round  writing  on  the  envelope  stirred 
him  deliciously  where  it  stared  up  from  the  floor. 
Almost  reverently  he  picked  it  up  and  fingered  it 
and  turned  it  over  and  examined  it  with  the  fond 
and  foolish  deliberation  of  a  lover  for  whom  cus- 
tom has  not  staled  these  little  blisses.  The  letter 
was  an  invitation  to  a  dance.  The  Tarrants  had 
just  come  home  and  they  were  taking  a  party  to 
the  Buxton  Galleries  on  Saturday.  And  they 
were  very  anxious  for  John  to  go.  It  was  clear, 
then,  that  they  had  declined  to  join  the  faction  of 
Mrs.  Vincent,  though  they  must  have  heard  the 
story,  numbers  of  stories,  by  this  time.  And 
John,  as  he  argued  thus,  was  almost  overwhelmed 
with  pride  and  tenderness  and  exultation.  He 
felt  then  that  he  had  known  always  that  Muriel 
was  different  from  the  malicious  sheep  who  were 
her  mother's  friends.  And  this  letter,  coming 
at  this  moment,  seemed  like  some  glorious  sign 
[170] 


The  House  by  the  River 

of  approbation  from,  Heaven,  an  acknowledg- 
ment and  a  reward  for  the  deed  of  sacrifice  to 
which  he  had  but  just  devoted  himself.  It  was 
an  inspiration  to  go  on  with  it  —  though  it  made 
the  sacrifice  itself  seem  easy. 

He  took  the  letter  to  his  bed  and  laid  it  on  the 
table  beside  him.  And  for  a  long  time  he  pon- 
dered in  the  dark  the  old  vague  dreams  of  Muriel 
and  marriage  which,  since  the  coming  of  the  letter, 
had  presented  themselves  with  such  startling 
clearness.  He  had  not  seen  her  for  many  weeks, 
but  this  letter  was  like  a  first  meeting;  it  was  a 
revelation.  He  knew  she  was  not  clever,  per- 
haps not  even  very  intelligent;  but  she  was  young 
and  lovely  and  kind;  and  she  should  be  the  simple 
companion  of  his  simple  heart.  He  was  very 
lonely  in  this  dark  house,  very  silent  and  alone. 
He  wanted  some  one  who  would  bring  voices  and 
colour  into  his  home,  would  make  it  a  glowing 
and  intimate  place,  like  Margery  Byrne's.  Poor 
Margery!  And  Muriel  would  do  this. 

But  he  would  have  hard  work  to  bring  this 
about.  He  knew  very  little  what  she  thought  of 
him.  He  would  be  very  accomplished  and  win- 
ning at  this  dance.  Probably  there  would  be  four 
of  them  —  Muriel  and  himself  and  her  young 
brother  George  and  some  flame  of  his.  They 
would  dance  together  most  of  the  evening,  and 
he  would  dance  with  Muriel.  And  he  must  not 


The  House  by  the  River 

be  awkward  —  slide  about  or  tread  on  her  toes. 
He  was  not  "  keen  on  dancing,"  and  he  was  not 
good  at  dancing.  But  he  could  "  get  round  " ; 
and  Muriel  would  teach  him  the  rest.  She  loved 
teaching  people. 

But  the  party  was  to  be  a  larger  affair  than 
John  had  imagined  it.  There  were  to  be  at  least 
six,  if  the  men  could  be  found.  And  in  the  morn- 
ing Muriel  Tarrant  came  herself  to  the  Byrnes' 
house  and  asked  if  Stephen  would  come.  It  was 
a  bold  suggestion,  for  she  did  not  know  him  very 
well,  and  she  knew  that  he  seldom  danced,  sel- 
dom indeed  "  went  out  "  at  all  in  the  evenings. 
But  such  boldness  became  a  virtue  in  the  post- 
war code  of  decorum,  and  she  was  a  bold  person, 
Muriel  Tarrant.  This  morning  she  looked  very 
fresh  and  alluring,  with  her  fair  hair  creeping  in 
calculated  abandon  from  a  small  blue  hat  and  a 
cluster  of  tiny  black  feathers  fastened  at  the  side 
of  it  —  tiny  feathers,  but  somehow  inexpressibly 
naughty.  They  wandered  downwards  over  the 
little  curls  at  the  side  of  her  head  and  nestled  deli- 
cately against  her  face. 

Margery  was  yet  in  bed,  and  Stephen  took  his 
visitor  out  into  the  hot  garden,  where  little  Joan 
was  wheeling  sedately  a  small  pram  and  the  rab- 
bits lay  panting  in  dark  corners.  And  first  he 
said  that  he  would  not  go  to  the  dance.  He  was 
busy  and  he  did  not  love  dancing;  and  anyhow 
[172] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Margery  could  not  go.  But  Muriel  perched  her- 
self on  the  low  wall  over  the  river,  and  leaned  for- 
ward with  her  blue  eyes  on  his,  and  a  little  pout 
about  her  lips;  and  she  said,  "Oh,  do,  Mr. 
Byrne."  And  there  was  a  kind  of  personal  ap- 
peal in  her  voice  and  her  eagerness  and  her  steady 
smiling  eyes  that  woke  up  his  vanity  and  his  ad- 
miration. He  thought,  "  She  really  thinks  it  is 
important  that  I  should  go;  she  likes  me."  And 
then,  "  And  I  like  her."  And  then  he  said  that 
he  would  go.  They  talked  a  little  in  the  sun  be- 
fore she  went,  and  when  she  was  gone  Stephen 
felt  as  if  some  secret  had  passed  between  them. 
Also  he  wondered  why  he  had  thought  so  little 
of  her  existence  before.  And  Muriel  went  down 
The  Chase,  smiling  at  some  secret  thought. 

They  dined  hurriedly  at  Brierleys'  that  Satur- 
day. Muriel  and  her  brother  and  Stephen  and 
John,  and  two  young  sisters  of  the  name  of  Atholl, 
to  whom  Gtorge  Tarrant  -owed  an  apparently 
impartial  allegiance.  They  were  equally  plump 
and  unintelligent,  and  neither  was  exciting  to  the 
outward  eye,  but  it  seemed  that  they  danced  well. 
But  to  young  George  this  was  the  grand  crite- 
rion of  fitness  for  the  purpose  of  a  dance.  John's 
idea  of  a  dance  —  and  Stephen's  —  was  a  social 
function  at  which  you  encountered  pleasant  people 
with  whom,  because  there  was  dancing,  one 
danced.  But  it  was  soon  made  clear  to  him  that 

[173] 


The  House  by  the  River 

these  were  the  withered  memories  of  an  obsolete 
age.  For  this  was  the  time  of  the  Great  Craze. 
A  dance  now  was  no  social  affair;  it  was  a  semi- 
gladiatorial  display  to  which  one  went  to  per- 
form a  purely  physical  operation  with  those  who 
were  physically  most  fitted  to  perform  it.  Danc- 
ing had  passed  out  of  the  "  party  "  stage;  it  was 
no  longer  even  a  difficult,  but  agreeable  and  uni- 
versal pastime;  it  was  practically  a  profession. 
It  was  entirely  impossible,  except  for  the  very 
highly  gifted,  even  to  approximate  to  the  correct 
standards  of  style  and  manner  without  spending 
considerable  sums  of  money  on  their  own  tuition. 
And  when  they  had  finished  their  elaborate  and 
laborious  training,  and  were  deemed  worthy  to 
take  the  floor  at  the  Buxton  Galleries  at  all, 
they  found  that  their  new  efficiency  was  a  thin 
and  ephemeral  growth.  The  steps  and  rhythms 
and  dances  which  they  had  but  yesterday  acquired, 
at  how  much  trouble  and  expense,  passed  today 
into  the  contemptible  limbo  of  the  unfashionable, 
like  the  hats  of  last  spring;  and  so  the  life  of  the 
devotee  was  one  long  struggle  to  keep  himself 
abreast  of  the  latest  invention  of  the  astute 
but  commercially-minded  professional  teachers. 
"  For  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave,"  for 
ever  studying,  yet  for  ever  out-of-date,  he  oscil- 
lated hopefully  between  the  Buxton  Galleries  and 
his  chosen  priest;  and  so  swift  and  ruthless  were 
[174] 


The  House  by  the  River 

the  changes  of  fashion  and  the  whims  of  the 
priesthood,  that  in  order  to  get  your  money's 
worth  of  the  last  trick  you  had  learned,  it  was 
necessary,  during  its  brief  life  of  respectability,  to 
dance  at  every  available  opportunity.  You 
danced  as  many  nights  a  week  as  was  physically 
or  financially  possible;  you  danced  on  week-days, 
and  you  danced  on  Sundays;  you  began  dancing 
in  the  afternoon,  and  you  danced  during  tea  in 
the  coffee-rooms  of  expensive  restaurants,  whirl- 
ing your  precarious  way  through  littered  and 
abandoned  tea-tables;  and  at  dinner-time  you 
leapt  up  madly  before  the  fish  and  danced  like 
variety  artistes  in  a  highly  polished  arena  before  a 
crowd  of  complete  strangers  eating  their  food; 
or,  as  if  seized  with  an  uncontrollable  craving  for 
the  dance,  you  flung  out  after  the  joint  for  one 
wild  gallop  in  an  outer  room,  from  which  you  re- 
turned, sweating  and  dyspeptic,  to  the  consump- 
tion of  an  iced  pudding,  before  dashing  forth  to 
the  final  orgy  at  a  night-club,  or  a  gallery,  or  the 
mansion  of  an  earl.  But  it  was  seldom  that  you 
danced  at  anybody's  mansion.  The  days  of  pri- 
vate and  hospitable  dances  were  practically  dead. 
Nobody  could  afford  to  give  as  many  dances  as 
the  dancing  cult  required.  Moreover,  at  private 
dances  there  were  old-fashioned  conventions  and 
hampering  politenesses  to  be  observed.  You 
might  have  to  dance  occasionally  out  of  mere  cour- 

[175] 


The  House  by  the  River 

tesy  with  some  person  who  was  three  weeks  behind 
the  times,  who  could  not  do  the  Jimble  or  the 
Double-Jazz  Glide,  or  might  even  have  an  at- 
tachment for  the  degrading  and  obsolete  Waltz. 
On  the  other  hand,  you  would  not  be  allowed  to 
dance  the  entire  evening  with  "  the  one  woman  in 
the  room  who  can  do  the  Straddle  properly,"  and 
there  was  a  prejudice  against  positive  indecency. 
So  it  was  better  from  all  points  of  view  to  pay  a 
few  guineas  and  go  to  a  gallery  or  a  restaurant  or 
a  night-club  with  a  small  number  of  selected 
women,  dragooned  by  long  practice  into  a  slavish 
harmony  with  the  niceties  of  your  particular  style 
and  favourite  steps.  And  after  all,  what  with 
the  dancing  lessons,  and  the  dance-dinners,  and 
the  dance-teas,  and  the  taxis  to  dances,  and  the 
taxis  away  from  dances,  and  the  tickets  for  dances, 
and  the  subscriptions  to  night-clubs,  and  the  life- 
memberships  of  night-clubs  which  perished  after 
two  years,  you  had  so  much  capital  invested  in 
the  industry  that  you  simply  could  not  aford  to 
have  a  moment's  pleasure  placed  in  jeopardy  by 
deficiencies  of  technique  in  your  guests.  Away, 
then,  with  mere  Beauty  and  mere  Charm  and  mere 
Intelligence  and  mere  Company!  Bring  out  the 
Prize  Mares  and  show  us  their  steps  and  their 
stamina,  their  powers  of  endurance  and  harmo- 
nious submission,  before  we  consent  to  appear 
with  them  in  the  public  and  costly  arena. 
[176] 


The  House  by  the  River 

A  party  selected  on  these  lines,  however  suit- 
able for  the  serious  business  of  the  evening,  could 
be  infinitely  wearisome  for  the  purposes  of  dinner. 
Stephen  thought  he  had  never  beheld  two  young 
women  so  little  entertaining  as  the  two  Misses 
Atholl.  All  they  talked  of  and  all  that  George 
Tarrant  talked  of  was  the  dances  they  had  been 
to,  and  were  going  to,  and  could  not  go  to,  and 
the  comparative  values  of  various  mutual  friends, 
considered  solely  as  dancers.  It  was  like  the 
tedious  "  shop  "  of  the  more  fanatical  golfers;  and 
indeed  at  any  moment  Stephen  expected  to  hear 
that  some  brave  or  other  had  a  handicap  of  three 
at  the  Buxton  Galleries,  or  had  become  stale  from 
over-training,  or  ruined  his  form  by  ordinary 
walking.  Stephen  (or  Muriel)  had  taken  care 
that  they  should  be  sitting  together,  but  though 
she  was  very  lively  and  charming,  and  though  her 
talk  was  less  restricted  in  range  than  the  talk  of 
the  Atholls,  Stephen  began  to  'wish  intensely  that 
he  had  not  come.  And  he  thought  of  Margery, 
and  was  sorry  that  he  had  left  her  alone  in  the 
house  to  come  and  listen  to  this  futile  jabbering. 
She  had  approved  enthusiastically  of  his  coming, 
for  she  thought  that  he  went  out  too  little ;  but  she 
had  looked  rather  wistful,  he  thought,  when  he 
left.  She  liked  dancing  herself. 

To  John,  too,  the  talk  at  dinner  and  the  per- 
sonality (if  any)  of  the  Misses  Atholl  was  inex- 

[177] 


The  House  by  the  River 

pressibly  dull;  and  since  he  was  as  far  away  from 
Muriel  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  be,  and  since 
she  scarcely  spoke  a  word  to  any  one  but  Stephen, 
he  had  nothing  to  console  him  but  a  few  provoca- 
tive glances  and  the  hope  of  seeing  more  of  her 
at  the  dance.  And  even  this  hope  was  dimmed  by 
the  presence  of  Stephen  and  the  intimidating  tech- 
nicalities of  the  conversation.  He  did  not  un- 
derstand why  Stephen  had  come,  and  he  rather 
resented  his  coming.  Wherever  Stephen  was 
one  of  the  company,  he  always  felt  himself  closing 
up  socially  like  an  awed  anemone  in  the  presence 
of  a  large  fish.  And  tonight  in  that  dominating 
presence  he  could  not  see  in  himself  the  brilliant 
and  romantic  figure  which  he  had  determined  to 
be  at  this  party.  It  was  far  from  being  the  kind 
of  party  he  had  expected. 

The  amazing  language  of  young  George  and 
the  Misses  Atholl  made  it  still  less  likely  that  that 
figure  would  be  achieved  at  the  dance.  What 
were  these  "  Rolls  "  and  "  Buzzes  "  and  "  Slides," 
he  wondered.  And  how  did  one  do  them?  The 
art  of  dancing  seemed  to  have  acquired  strange 
complexities  since  he  had  last  attempted  it  eigh- 
teen months  ago.  Then  with  a  faint  pride  he 
had  mastered  the  Fox  Trot  and  something  they 
called  a  Boston.  They  had  seemed  very  daring 
and  difficult  then,  but  already  it  seemed  they  were 
dead.  At  any  rate  they  were  never  mentioned. 


The  House  by  the  River 

John  foresaw  some  hideous  embarrassments,  and 
he  too  wished  fervently  that  he  had  not  come. 

But  Muriel  at  least  was  enjoying  herself.  She 
was  feeling  unusually  mischievous  and  irresponsi- 
ble. She  twinkled  mischief  at  John's  glum  face, 
and  she  twinkled  mischief  into  Stephen's  eyes. 
Only  they  were  different  kinds  of  mischief.  She 
had  long  been  fond  of  John  "  in  a  kind  of  way  " ; 
she  was  still  fond  of  him  "  in  a  kind  of  way."  But 
he  was  a  slow  and  indefinite  suitor,  old  John, 
and  he  was  undeniably  not  exciting.  However, 
there  was  no  one  she  liked  better,  and  if  he  should 
ever  bring  himself  to  the  pitch  of  suggesting  it, 
she  had  little  doubt  that  she  would  take  him.  His 
income  would  not  be  large,  but  it  would  be  cer- 
tain. 

But  it  was  slow  work  waiting,  and  this  evening 
she  had  Stephen  Byrne;  and  Stephen  Byrne  was 
undeniably  exciting.  Not  simply  because  he  was 
a  great  poet, —  for  though  she  liked  "  poitry  "  in  a 
vague  way,  she  did  not  like  any  one  poet  or  one 
piece  of  poetry  much  better  than  another  —  but 
because  he  had  made  a  success  of  poetry,  a  worldly 
success.  He  had  made  a  name,  he  had  even 
made  money;  he  was  a  well-known  man.  And  he 
was  handsome  and  young,  and  his  hair  was  black, 
and  that  morning  in  the  garden  he  had  admired 
her.  She  knew  that.  And  she  knew  that  she  had 
touched  his  vanity  by  her  urgency  and  his  senses 

[179] 


The  House  by  the  River 

by  her  charm,  and  something  naughty  had  stirred 
in  her,  and  that  too.  he  had  seen  and  enjoyed  with 
a  sympathetic  naughtiness.  And  she  had  thought 
to  herself  that  it  would  be  an  amusing  thing  to 
captivate  this  famous  young  man,  this  married, 
respectable,  delightful  youth;  it  would  be  inter- 
esting to  see  how  powerful  she  could  be.  And 
at  least  she  might  waken  John  Egerton  into  ac- 
tivity. 

They  went  on  to  the  dance  in  two  taxis.  John 
found  himself  on  one  of  the  small  seats  with  his 
back  to  the  driver,  with  Stephen  and  Muriel  chat- 
tering aloofly  together  in  the  gloom  of  the  larger 
seat.  The  small  seat  in  a  taxi  is,  at  the  best  of 
times,  a  position  of  moral  and  strategic  inferior- 
ity, and  tonight  Johhn  felt  this  keenly.  He 
screwed  his  head  round  uncomfortably  in  his 
sharp  collar  and  pretended  to  be  profoundly  in- 
terested in  the  wet  and  hurrying  streets.  But  he 
heard  every  word  they  said;  and  they  said  no  word 
to  him. 

From  the  door  of  the  galleries  where  the  danc- 
ing was  done,  a  confused  uproar  overflowed  into 
the  passages,  as  if  several  men  of  powerful 
physique  were  banging  a  number  of  pokers  against 
a  number  of  saucepans,  and  blowing  whistles,  and 
occasional  catcalls,  and  now  and  then  beating  a 
drum  and  several  sets  of  huge  cymbals,  and  cease- 
lessly twanging  at  innumerable  banjos,  and  at  the 
[i  80] 


The  House  by  the  River 

same  time  singing  in  a  foreign  language,  and  shout- 
ing curses  or  exhortations  or  street-cries,  or  imi- 
tating hunting-calls  or  the  cry  of  the  hyena,  or 
uniting  suddenly  in  the  final  war-whoop  of  some 
pitiless  Indian  tribe.  It  was  a  really  terrible 
noise.  It  hit  you  like  the  breath  of  an  explosion 
as  you  entered  the  room.  There  was  no  distin- 
guishable tune.  It  was  simply  an  enormous  noise. 
But  there  was  a  kind  of  savage  rhythm  about  it, 
which  made  John  think  immediately  of  Indians 
and  fierce  men  and  the  native  camps  which  he  had 
visited  at  the  Earl's  Court  Exhibition.  And  this 
was  not  surpising;  for  the  musicians  included  one 
genuine  negro  and  three  men  with  their  faces 
blacked;  and  the  noise  and  the  rhythm  were  the  au- 
thentic music  of  a  negro  village  in  South  America ; 
and  the  words  which  some  genius  had  once  set  to 
the  noise  were  an  exhortation  to  go  to  the  place 
where  the  negroes  dwelt. 

To  judge  by  their  movements,  John  thought, 
many  of  the  dancers  had  in  fact  been  there,  and 
carefully  studied  the  best  indigenous  models. 
They  were  doing  some  quite  extraordinary  things. 
No  two  couples  were  doing  quite  the  same  thing 
for  more  than  a  few  seconds;  so  that  there  was 
an  endless  variety  of  extraordinary  motions  and 
extraordinary  postures.  Some  of  them  shuf- 
fled secretly  along  the  edge  of  the  room,  their 
faces  tense,  their  shoulders  swaying  faintly  like 

[181] 


The  House  by  the  River 

reeds  in  a  light  wind,  their  progress  almost  imper- 
ceptible; they  did  not  rotate,  they  did  not  speak, 
but  sometimes  the  tremor  of  a  skirt  or  the  slight 
stirring  of  a  patent  leather  shoe  showed  that  they 
were  indeed  alive  and  in  motion,  though  that 
motion  was  as  the  motion  of  a  glacier,  not  to  be 
measured  in  minutes  or  yards.  And  some,  in  a 
kind  of  fever,  rushed  hither  and  thither  among 
the  thick  crowd,  avoiding  disaster  with  marvellous 
dexterity;  and  sometimes  they  revolved  slowly 
and  sometimes  quickly,  and  sometimes  spun  gid- 
dily round  for  a  moment  like  gyroscopic  tops. 
Then  they  too  would  be  seized  with  a  kind  of 
trance,  or,  it  may  be,  with  sheer  shortness  of 
breath,  and  hung  motionless  for  a  little  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  while  the  mad  throng  jostled 
and  flowed  about  them  like  the  leaves  in  autumn 
round  a  dead  bird.  And  some  did  not  revolve  at 
all,  but  charged  straightly  up  and  down;  and  some 
of  these  thrust  their  loves  for  ever  before  them, 
as  the  Prussians  thrust  the  villagers  in  the  face 
of  the  enemy,  and  some  for  ever  navigated  them- 
selves backwards  like  moving  breakwaters  to  pro- 
tect their  darlings  from  the  rough  seas  of  tangled 
women  and  precipitate  men.  Some  of  them  kept 
themselves  as  upright  as  possible,  swaying  grace- 
fully like  willows  from  the  hips,  and  some  of 
them  contorted  themselves  into  hideous  and  angu- 
lar shapes,  now  leaning  perilously  forward  till 
[182] 


The  House  by  the  River 

they  were  practically  lying  upon  their  terrified 
partners,  and  now  bending  sideways  as  a  man 
bends  who  has  water  in  one  ear  after  bathing. 
All  of  them  clutched  each  other  in  a  close  and  in- 
timate manner,  but  some,  as  if  by  separation  to  in- 
tensify the  joy  of  their  union,  or  perhaps  to  secure 
greater  freedom  for  some  particularly  spacious 
manoeuvre,  would  part  suddenly  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  and,  clinging  distantly  with  their  hands, 
execute  a  number  of  complicated  side-steps  in  op- 
posite directions,  or  aim  a  series  of  vicious  kicks 
at  each  other,  after  which  they  would  reunite  in 
a  passionate  embrace,  and  gallop  in  a  frenzy  round 
the  room,  or  fall  into  a  trance,  or  simply  fall 
down;  if  they  fell  down  they  lay  still  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  fearful  expectation  of  death,  as  men 
lie  who  fall  under  a  horse;  and  then  they  would 
creep  on  hands  and  knees  to  the  shore  through 
the  mobile  and  indifferent  crowd. 

Watching  them  you  could  not  tell  what  any  one 
couple  would  do  next.  The  most  placid  and  dig- 
nified among  them  might  at  any  moment  fling  a 
leg  out  behind  them  and  almost  kneel  in  mutual 
adoration,  and  then,  as  if  nothing  unusual  had 
happened,  shuffle  solemnly  onward  through  the 
press;  or,  as  though  some  electric  mechanism  had 
been  set  in  motion,  they  would  suddenly  lift  a  foot 
sideways  and  stand  on  one  leg,  reminding  the  ob- 
server irresistibly  of  a  dog  out  for  a  walk;  or, 

[183] 


The  House  by  the  River 

with  the  suggestion  of  an  acrobat  nerving  himself 
for  the  final  effort  of  daring,  the  male  would 
plant  himself  firmly  on  both  feet  while  his  maiden 
laboriously  leapt  a  half-circle  throught  the  air 
about  the  tense  figure  of  her  swain.  It  was  mar- 
vellous with  what  unanimity  these  eccentricities 
were  performed.  So  marvellous,  John  thought, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  think  of  them  as  sponta- 
neous, joyous  expressions  of  art.  He  imagined 
the  male  issuing  his  orders  during  the  long  minutes 
of  shuffling  motion,  carefully  manoeuvring  into  po- 
sition, sizing  up  like  a  general  the  strategic  situa- 
tion, and  then  hoarsely  whispering  the  final 
"  Now !  "  And  after  that  they  moved  on  with  all 
the  nonchalance  of  extreme  self-consciousness, 
thinking,  no  doubt,  "  It  cost  me  a  lot  to  learn  that 
—  but  it  was  worth  it." 

The  look  of  their  faces  confirmed  this  view,  for 
nearly  all  were  set  and  purposeful  and  strained, 
as  men  who  have  serious  work  in  hand;  not  soul- 
ful, not  tense  with  emotion,  but  simply  expressive 
of  concentration.  With  few  exceptions  there 
was  nothing  of  the  joy  of  life  in  those  faces,  the 
rapture  of  music  or  of  motion.  They  meant 
business.  And  this  was  the  only  thing  that  could 
absolve  many  of  them  from  the  charge  of  public 
indecency;  for  it  was  clear  that  their  motions  and 
the  manner  of  their  embraces  were  not  the  ex- 
[184] 


The  House  by  the  River 

pression  of  licence  or  affection  so  much  as  matters 
of  technique. 

Upon  this  whirlpool  John  Egerton  embarked 
with  the  gravest  misgivings,  especially  as  he  was 
conscious  of  a  strange  Miss  Atholl  clinging  to 
his  person.  Young  George  Tarrant  had  imme- 
diately plunged  into  the  storm  with  her  sister, 
and  his  fair  head  was  to  be  seen  far  off,  gleaming 
and  motionless  like  a  lighthouse  above  the  tossing 
heads  and  undulant  shoulders.  Stephen  had  se- 
cured Muriel  Tarrant,  and  poor  John  was  very 
miserable.  If  he  had  been  less  shy,  or  more 
intimate  with  Miss  Atholl,  he  might  have  com- 
forted himself  with  the  comedy  of  it  all.  And 
if  he  had  been  more  ruthless  he  might  have  bent 
Miss  Atholl  to  his  will  and  declined  to  attempt 
anything  but  his  own  primitive  two-step.  But  he 
became  solemn  and  panic-stricken,  and  surren- 
dered his  hegemony  to  her,  suffering  her  to  give 
him  intricate  advice  in  a  language  which  was  mean- 
ingless to  him,  and  to  direct  him  with  ineffectual 
tugs  and  pushes  which  only  made  his  bewilder- 
ment worse.  The  noise  was  deafening,  the  at- 
mosphere stifling,  the  floor  incredibly  slippery. 
The  four  black  men  were  now  all  shouting  at  once, 
and  playing  all  their  instruments  at  once,  working 
up  to  the  inconceivable  uproar  of  the  finale,  and 
all  the  dancers  began  to  dance  with  a  last  des- 


The  House  by  the  River 

perate  fury  and  velocity.  Bodies  buffeted  John 
from  behind,  and  while  he  was  yet  looking  round 
in  apology  or  anger,  other  bodies  buffeted  him 
from  the  flank,  and  more  bodies  buffeted  his  part- 
ner and  pressed  her  against  his  reluctant  frame. 
It  was  like  swimming  in  a  choppy  sea,  where  there 
is  no  time  to  recover  from  the  slap  and  buffets  of 
one  wave  before  the  next  one  smites  you. 

Miss  Atholl  whispered,  "  Hold  me  tighter," 
and  John,  blushing  faintly  at  these  unnatural  ad- 
vances, tightened  a  little  his  ineffectual  grip.  The 
result  of  this  was  that  he  kicked  her  more  often 
on  the  ankle  and  trod  more  often  on  her  toes. 
Close  beside  him  a  couple  fell  down  with  a  crash 
and  a  curse  and  the  harsh  tearing  of  satin.  John 
glanced  at  them  in  concern,  but  was  swept  swiftly 
onward  with  the  tide.  He  was  dimly  aware  now 
that  the  black  men  were  standing  on  their  chairs 
bellowing,  and  fancied  the  end  must  be  near. 
And  with  this  thought  he  found  himself  surpris- 
ingly in  a  quiet  backwater,  a  corner  between 
two  rows  of  chairs,  from  which  he  determined 
never  to  issue  till  the  Last  Banjo  should  indeed 
sound.  And  here  he  sidled  and  shuffled  vaguely 
for  a  little,  hoping  that  he  gave  the  impression  of 
a  man  preparing  himself  for  some  vast  culminat- 
ing feat,  a  sidestep,  or  a  "  buzz,"  or  a  double- 
Jazzspin,  or  whatever  these  wonders  might  be. 

Then  the  noise  suddenly  ceased;  there  was  a 
[186] 


The  House  by  the  River 

burst  of  perfunctory  clapping,  and  the  company 
became  conscious  of  the  sweat  of  their  bodies. 
John  looked  round  longingly  for  Muriel. 

But  Muriel  was  happily  chattering  to  Stephen 
Byrne  in  a  deep  sofa  surrounded  by  palms. 
Stephen,  like  John,  had  surveyed  the  new  dancing 
with  dismay,  but  his  dismay  was  more  artistic 
than  personal.  He  was  as  much  amused  as  dis- 
gusted, and  he  did  not  intend,  for  any  woman, 
to  make  himself  ridiculous  by  attempting  any 
of  the  more  recent  monstrosities. 

But,  unlike  John,  he  had  the  natural  spirit  of 
dancing  in  his  soul;  so  that  he  was  able  to  ignore 
the  freakish  stupidities  of  the  scene,  and  extract 
an  artistic  elemental  pleasure  of  his  own  from 
the  light  and  the  colour  and  excitement,  from  the 
barbaric  rhythm  of  the  noise  and  the  seductive 
contact  of  Muriel  Tarrant.  So  he  took  her  and 
swung  her  defiantly  round  in  an  ordinary  old- 
fashioned  waltz ;  and  she,  because  it  was  the  great 
Stephen  Byrne,  felt  no  shame  at  this  sacrilege. 

When  they  had  come  to  the  sofa,  she  talked  for 
a  little  the  idle  foolishness  which  is  somehow  in- 
separable from  the  intervals  between  dances,  and 
he  thought,  "  I  wonder  whether  she  always  talks 
like  this.  I  wonder  if  she  reads  my  poems.  I 
wonder  if  she  likes  them."  He  began  to  wish 
that  she  would  pay  him  a  compliment  about  them, 
even  an  unintelligent  compliment.  It  might  jar 

[187] 


The  House  by  the  River 

upon  him  intellectually,  but,  coming  from  her,  it 
would  still  be  pleasing.  For  it  is  a  mistake  to 
suppose  that  great  artists  are  so  remote  from 
the  weaknesses  of  other  men  that  they  are  not 
sometimes  ready  to  have  their  vanity  tickled  by 
a  charming  girl  at  the  expense  of  their  profes- 
sional sensibilities. 

But  she  only  said,  "  It's  a  ripping  band  here. 
I  hope  you'll  come  here  again,  Mr.  Byrne."  And 
he  thought,  "  What  a  conversation !  "  How  could 
one  live  permanently  with  a  conversation  like 
this?  But  old  John  could! 

But  as  she  said  it  she  looked  him  in  the  eyes 
very  directly  and  delightfully,  and  once  again 
there  was  the  sense  of  a  secret  passing  between 
them. 

Then  they  went  to  look  for  John,  and  Muriel 
determined  that  she  would  be  very  nice  to  him. 
The  next  dance  was,  nominally,  a  waltz,  and  that 
was  a  rare  event.  John  asked  if  he  might  waltz 
in  the  ancient  fashion,  and  though  she  was  being 
conscientiously  sweet  and  gracious  to  him,  and 
though  she  had  made  no  murmur  when  Stephen 
had  done  as  John  would  like  to  do,  some  devil 
within  her  made  her  refuse.  She  said  that  he 
must  do  the  Hesitation  Waltz  as  other  people 
were  doing.  The  chief  point  of  this  seemed  to 
be  that  you  imitated  the  dog,  not  by  spasms,  but 
[1*8] 


The  House  by  the  River 

consistently.  Even  the  most  expert  practitioner 
failed  to  invest  this  feat  with  elegance  and  dignity, 
and  the  remainder,  poising  themselves  pathetically 
with  one  leg  in  the  air,  as  if  waiting  for  the  happy 
signal  when  they  might  put  it  down,  would  have 
looked  ridiculous  if  they  had  not  looked  so  sad. 
Stephen,  revolving  wearily  with  the  younger  Miss 
Atholl,  wished  that  the  Medusa's  head  might 
be  smuggled  into  the  room  for  the  attitudes  of 
this  dance  to  be  imperishably  recorded  in  cold 
stone.  Then  he  caught  sight  of  the  unhappy 
John,  and  was  smitten  with  an  amused  sympathy. 
John's  study  of  the  habits  of  dogs  had  evi4ently 
been  superficial,  and  he  did  not  greatly  enjoy  his 
first  dance  with  his  love.  He  held  her  very  rev- 
erently and  loosely,  though  dimly  aware  that  this 
made  things  much  more  difficult,  but  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  seize  that  soft  and  alto- 
gether sacred  form  in  the  kind  of  intimate  clutch 
which  the  other  men  affected  —  Stephen,  he  no- 
ticed, included.  It  was  a  maddening  complexity 
of  emotion,  that  dance  —  the  incredible  awe  and 
rapture  of  holding  his  adored,  however  lightly, 
in  his  arms,  the  intoxication  of  her  nearnness,  the 
fragrance  of  her  dress,  and  the  touch  of  her  hair 
upon  his  face  —  and  all  this  ruined  by  the  exas- 
perating futility  of  the  actual  dance,  the  vile  neces- 
sity of  thinking  whether  he  was  in  time  with  the 
music  and  in  time  with  Muriel,  and  if  he  was 

[189] 


The  House  by  the  River 

going  to  run  into  the  couple  ahead,  and  if  there 
was  room  to  reverse  in  that  corner,  and  whether 
he  should  cock  his  leg  up  farther,  or  not  so  far, 
or  not  at  all.  He  envied  bitterly  the  easy  accom- 
plishment of  the  circling  youths  about  him,  who, 
for  all  the  earnestness  of  their  expressions,  had 
each  of  them,  no  doubt,  time  to  appreciate  the 
fact  that  they  held  on  their  arms  some  warm  and 
lovely  girl. 

Yet  Muriel  was  very  kind  and  forbearing  and 
instructive,  and  at  the  end  of  it  he  did  feel  that 
he  had  made  some  progress,  both  with  his  hesi- 
tating and  his  suit.  They  sat  in  the  interval  on 
the  same  sofa,  and  Muriel  was  still  gracious. 
She  told  him  that  he  would  pick  it  up  very  quickly, 
that  it  was  all  knack,  that  it  was  all  balance,  that 
it  was  all  practice,  that  no  practice  was  needed. 
And  John  believed  everything  and  was  much  ex- 
cited and  pleased.  He  thanked  her  for  her  ad- 
vice, and  vowed  that  he  would  take  lessons  and 
become  an  expert.  And  Muriel  thought,  "  He 
will  never  be  able  to  dance;  could  I  live  per- 
manently with  a  man  like  that?  "  She  thought 
what  a  prim,  funny  "  old  boy  "  he  was.  But  he 
was  a  nice  "  old  boy,"  and  that  rumour  about  the 
maid-servant  was  positively  ridiculous. 

The  next  dance  she  had  promised  to  Stephen. 
The  four  black  men  were  playing  a  wild  and  pre- 
cipitate tune.  A  certain  melody  was  distinguish- 


The  House  by  the  River 

able,  and  it  had  less  of  the  lunacies  of  extravagant 
syncopation  than  most  of  their  repertoire.  But 
it  was  a  wicked  tune,  a  hot,  provocative,  passion- 
ate tune,  that  fired  a  man  with  a  kind  of  fever  of 
motion.  Faster  and  faster,  and  louder  and 
louder,  the  black  men  played;  and  though  it  was 
impossible  for  the  dancers  to  move  much  faster 
because  of  the  press,  their  entranced  souls  re- 
sponded to  the  gathering  urgency  of  the  music, 
and  they  clutched  their  partners  more  tightly,  and 
they  were  conscious  no  more  of  the  sweat  upon 
their  bodies,  of  their  sore  toes,  or  disordered 
dresses,  they  forgot  for  a  moment  the  technical 
details  of  the  movements  of  their  feet,  and  they 
were  whirled  helplessly  on  in  a  savage  crescendo 
of  noise  and  motion  and  physical  rapture  towards 
the  final  Elysium  of  licence  to  which  this  dance 
must  surely  lead  them. 

Stephen  Byrne  felt  the  fever  and  enjoyed  it. 
He  enjoyed  it  equally  as  a  personal  indulgence 
and  as  an  artistic  experience.  He  held  Muriel 
very  close,  and  found  himself  dancing  with  an 
eager  pleasure  which  surprised  him.  Yet  as  he 
danced,  he  was  noticing  his  own  sensations  and  the 
faces  of  the  people  about  him,  the  intense 
faces  of  the  men,  the  drugged  expressions  of  the 
women.  He  saw  oldish  men  looking  horribly 
young  in  their  animal  excitement,  and  oldish 
women  looking  horrible  in  their  coquettishness. 


The  House  by  the  River 

And  he  saw  them  all  as  literary  material.     He 
thought,  "  This  is  good  copy." 

Muriel,  he  knew,  was  enjoying  it  too.  Her 
eyes  were  half-closed,  her  face,  a  little  pale,  had 
the  aspect  of  absolute  surrender  which  can  be  seen 
in  churches.  But  sometimes  she  opened  her  eyes 
wide  and  smiled  at  Stephen.  And  this  excited 
him  very  much,  so  that  he  watched  for  it;  and 
when  she  saw  that  she  blushed.  Then  he  was 
swept  with  a  hot  gust  of  feeling,  and  he  realized 
that  he  was  dangerously  attracted  by  this  girl. 
He  thought  of  Margery  and  the  late  vows  he 
had  made,  and  he  was  ashamed.  But  the  mad 
dance  went  on,  with  ever-increasing  fury,  and 
the  black  men  returned  with  a  vast  tempestuous 
chord  and  a  shattering  crash  of  cymbals  to  the 
original  melody,  and  all  those  men  and  women 
braced  themselves  to  snatch  the  last  moment  of 
this  intoxication.  Those  who  were  dancing  with 
bad  partners  or  dull  partners  were  filled  with  bit- 
terness because  they  were  not  getting  the  full 
measure  of  the  dance;  and  those  who  held  the 
perfect  partners  in  their  arms  foresaw  with  sorrow 
the  near  end  of  their  rapture,  and  began,  if  they 
had  not  already  begun,  to  conceive  for  each  other 
a  certain  sentimental  regard.  Stephen  thought 
no  more  of  Margery,  but  he  thought  tenderly  of 
Muriel  and  the  moment  when  the  dance  must  end. 
For  when  it  ended  all  would  be  over;  he  might 
[192] 


The  House  by  the  River 

not  hold  her  in  his  arms  any  more,  he  might  not 
enjoy  her  loveliness  in  any  way,  because  he  was 
married,  and  she  was  dedicated  to  John.  She 
was  too  good  for  John.  But  because  he  was  mar- 
ried he  must  stand  aside  and  see  her  sacrificed  to 
John  or  to  somebody  like  John.  He  must  not 
interfere  with  that.  But  he  would  like  to  inter- 
fere. He  would  like  to  kiss  her  at  the  end  of 
the  dance. 

The  dance  was  finished  at  last,  and  while  they 
sat  together  afterwards,  hot  and  exhausted, 
Muriel  said  suddenly,  "  What's  all  this  about 
Mr.  Egerton  —  and  —  that  maid  of  yours — ? 
There  are  some  horrid  stories  going  round  — 
Mrs.  Vincent — Mother  said  she  wouldn't  listen 
to  any  of  them." 

Stephen  was  silent  for  a  little.  Then  he  said, 
in  a  doubtful,  deliberate  manner: 

"  Well,  I've  known  John  as  long  as  anybody 
in  The  Chase,  and  I  know  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow, 
but  —  but  —  It  was  an  extraordinary  affair, 
that,  altogether.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of 
it."  He  finished  with  a  sigh  of  perplexity. 

Then  he  sat  silent  again,  marvelling  at  himself, 
and  Muriel  said  no  more. 

John  came  up  and  stood  awkwardly  before 
them.  He  wanted  to  ask  Muriel  for  the  next 
dance,  but  he  was  too  shy  to  begin.  His  dress- 
suit  was  ill-fitting  and  old,  his  hair  ruffled,  his  tie 

[193] 


The  House  by  the  River 

crooked,  and  as  she  lay  back  on  the  sofa  Muriel 
could  see  a  glimpse  of  shirt  between  the  top  of 
his  trousers  and  the  bottom  of  the  shrunken  and 
dingy  white  waistcoat,  where  any  pronounced 
movement  of  his  body  caused  a  spasmodic  but 
definite  hiatus.  His  shirt  front  had  buckled  into 
a  wide  dent.  Of  all  these  things  poor  John  was 
acutely  conscious  as  he  stood  uncertainly  before 
the  two. 

Stephen  said  heartily,  "  Hallo,  old  John,  you 
look  a  bit  the  worse  for  wear.  How  did  you  get 
on  that  time?" 

John  stammered,  "  Not  very  well  —  I  want 
Miss  Tarrant  to  give  me  some  more  —  some  more 
instruction."  And  he  looked  at  Muriel,  an  ap- 
pealing, pathetic  look.  He  wished  very  fiercely 
that  Stephen  was  not  there  —  so  easy  and  dash- 
ing, and  certain  of  himself. 

And  Muriel  had  no  smile  for  him.  She 
glanced  inquiringly  at  Stephen,  and  said,  with  the 
hard  face  of  a  statue,  "  I'm  sorry,  I'm  doing  the 
next  with  Mr.  Byrne."  And  Stephen  nodded. 

She  danced  no  more  with  John  that  night. 
Sometimes  as  he  sat  out  disconsolately  with  one 
of  the  Atholl  women,  she  brushed  him  with  her 
skirt,  or  he  saw  her  distantly  among  the  crowd. 
And  he  looked  now  with  a  new  longing  at  the 
adorable  poise  of  her  head  upon  her  shoulders,  at 
the  sheen  and  texture  of  her  hair,  at  the  grace 
['94] 


The  House  by  the  River 

and  lightness  of  her  movements,  as  she  swam 
past  with  Stephen.  He  looked  after  her  till  she 
was  lost  in  the  press,  trying  to  catch  her  eye,  hop- 
ing that  she  might  see  him  and  smile  at  him. 
But  if  she  saw  him  she  never  smiled.  And  when 
he  was  sick  with  love  and  sadness,  and  hated  the 
Atholls  with  a  bitter  hatred,  he  left  the  building 
alone,  and  went  home  miserably  by  the  Under- 
ground. 


[195] 


XII 

JULY  drew  on  to  a  sultry  end.  In  the  little 
gardens  of  Hammerton  the  thin  lawns 
grew  yellow  and  bare:  and  there,  by  the 
river-wall,  the  people  of  The  Chase  took  their 
teas  and  their  suppers,  and  rested  gratefully  in 
the  evening  cool.  One  week  after  the  dance  the 
Byrnes  were  to  go  away  into  the  country,  and 
Margery  had  looked  forward  eagerly  to  the  27th 
of  July.  But  Stephen  said  on  the  25th  that  he 
could  not  come:  he  had  nearly  finished  the  poem 
"  Chivalry,"  and  he  wanted  to  finish  it  before 
he  went  away;  and  he  had  much  business  to  settle 
with  publishers  and  so  on:  he  was  publishing  a 
volume  of  Collected  Poems,  and  there  were  ques- 
tions of  type  and  paper  and  cover  to  be  deter- 
mined; and  he  had  a  long  article  for  The  Epoch 
to  do.  All  these  things  might  take  a  week  or  they 
might  take  a  fortnight;  but  he  would  follow  Mar- 
gery as  soon  as  he  might  —  she  could  feel  sure 
of  that. 

Against  this  portentous  aggregate  of  excuses 
Margery  argued  gently  and  sorrowfully  but 
Vainly.  And  sorrowfully  she  went  away  with 
Nurse  and  Joan  and  Michael  Hilary.  She  went 
[196] 


The  House  by  the  River 

away  to  Hampshire,  to  the  house  of  an  old  friend 
—  a  lovely  place  on  the  shore  of  the  Solent.  You 
drove  there  from  Brockenhurst  through  the 
fringes  of  the  New  Forest,  through  marvellous 
regiments  of  ancient  trees,  and  wild  stretches  of 
heathery  waste,  and  startling  patches  of  hedge 
and  pasture,  where  villages  with  splendid  names 
lurked  slyly  in  unexpected  hollows,  and  cows  stood 
sleepily  by  the  rich  banks  of  little  brooks.  And 
when  you  came  to  the  house,  you  saw  suddenly 
the  deep  blue  band  of  the  Solent,  coloured  like 
the  Dardanelles,  and  quiet  like  a  lake.  Beyond 
it  rose  the  green  foothills  of  the  Island,  patched 
with  the  brown  of  ploughlands  and  landslides  by 
the  sea,  and  far-off  the  faint  outline  of  Mottistone 
Down  and  Brightstone  Down,  little  heights  that 
had  the  colour  and  dignity  of  great  mountains 
when  the  light  caught  them  in  the  early  morning 
or  in  the  evening  or  after  the  rain.  On  the  water 
small  white  boats  with  red  sails  and  green  sails 
shot  about  like  butterflies,  and  small  black  fishing- 
craft  prowled  methodically  near  the  shore.  And 
sometimes  in  the  evening  a  great  liner  stole  out 
of  Southampton  Water  and  crept  enormously 
along  the  farther  shore,  her  hull  a  beautiful  grey, 
her  funnel  an  indescribable  tint,  that  was  neither 
pink  nor  scarlet  nor  red,  but  fitted  perfectly  in  the 
bright  picture  of  the  land  and  the  sea.  And  all 
day  there  were  ships  passing,  battleships  and  aged 

[197] 


The  House  by  the  River 

tramps  and  dredgers  and  destroyers,  and  some- 
times a  tall  sailing-ship  that  looked  like  an  old 
engraving,  and  big  yachts  with  sails  like  snow, 
and  little  yachts  with  sails  like  cinnamon  or  the 
skin  of  an  Arab  boy.  At  low  tide  there  were  long 
stretches  of  mudflats  and  irregular  pools,  before 
the  house  and  far  away  to  the  west;  and  these  at 
sunset  were  places  of  great  beauty.  For  the  sun- 
set colours  of  the  tumbled  clouds,  and  the  subtle 
green  of  the  lower  sky  and  the  bold  blue  of  the 
cloudless  spaces  above  were  in  these  pools  and  in 
the  near  shallows  of  the  sea  perfectly  recaptured. 
In  this  delicate  mosaic  of  golden  pools  and  rose 
pools  and  nameless  lights  herons  moved  with  a 
majestic  stealth  or  stood  like  ebony  images  watch- 
ing for  fish;  and  little  companies  of  swans  swam 
up  and  down  with  the  arrogant  beauty  of  all 
swans  and  the  unique  beauty  of  swans  in  sea 
water:  and  all  the  sea-birds  of  England  circled 
and  swooped  against  the  sun  or  clustered  chatter- 
ing on  the  purple  mud  and  saffron  patches  of  sand, 
with  a  strange  quietness,  as  if  they,  too,  must  do 
their  reverence  to  the  stillness  and  the  splendour 
of  that  hour. 

The  sun  went  down  and  all  those  colours  de- 
parted, but  for  a  sad  glow  over  Dorsetshire  and 
the  deep  green  of  the  Needles  Light  that  shot 
along  the  still  surface  almost  to  your  feet  as  you 
stood  in  the  thick  grass  above  the  shore. 
[198] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Then  you  went  with  the  sensation  of  awe  into 
the  house;  and  the  house  was  old  and  comforting 
and  spacious,  with  a  mellow  roof  of  gentle  red; 
and  it  was  rich  with  the  timber  of  Hampshire 
trees.  There  was  a  lawn  in  front  of  it  and  a  tan- 
gled screen  of  low  shrubs  and  sallow  trees;  and 
when  Margery  stood  in  the  wide  window  of  her 
room  there  was  nothing  but  these  between  herself 
and  the  sea;  and  there  was  no  building  to  be  seen 
nor  the  work  of  any  man,  only  the  friendly  ships 
and  their  lights,  and  the  far  smoke  of  a  farm  upon 
the  Island,  and  at  night  the  blinking  lamp  of  a 
buoy-light  in  the  Channel.  To  Margery  it  would 
have  been  the  perfect  haven  of  contentment  and 
rest  —  if  Stephen  had  come  with  her.  But  he 
had  not  come.  At  night  the  curlews  flew  past  the 
windows  with  the  long  and  sweet  and  musical  cry 
which  no  other  bird  can  utter  and  no  man  imitate, 
nor  even  interpret  —  for  who  can  say  from-  the 
sound  of  it  if  it  be  a  cry  of  melancholy  or  a  song 
of  hope  or  rejoicing  or  love?  But  to  Margery 
in  those  weeks  it  was  a  song  of  absolute  sadness, 
of  lost  possibilities  and  shattered  dreams,  and  it 
was  the  very  voice  of  her  disappointment,  her  pro- 
test against  the  exquisite  tantalization  of  her  com- 
ing to  this  exquisite  retreat  —  and  coming  alone. 

And  Stephen  in  London  worked  on  at  "  Chiv- 
alry." He  was  beginning  to  be  tired  of  it  now 
as  the  end  of  it  came  in  sight,  and  it  was  true  that 


The  House  by  the  River 

he  wanted  to  be  able  to  leave  the  whole  burden 
of  it  behind  him  when  he  went  away.  But  that 
was  not  the  whole  reason  of  his  staying  at  home, 
and  what  the  whole  reason  was  he  had  not  con- 
sciously determined;  but  faintly  he  knew  that 
Muriel  Tarrant  was  part  of  it. 

He  was  tired  of  the  poem  now,  and  was  eager 
to  be  done  —  eager  to  be  done  with  the  long  la- 
bour of  execution  of  an  idea  no  longer  fresh  with 
the  first  fury  of  inspiration.  And  now  that  so 
much  was  achieved  he  was  urgent  to  finish  it 
quickly  and  give  it  to  the  world,  lest  some  other 
be  before  him.  For  poets  and  all  authors  suffer 
something  of  the  terrors  of  inventors  and  scien- 
tific creators,  toiling  feverishly  at  the  latest  child 
of  their  imagination,  while  who  knows  what  other 
man  may  not  already  have  stolen  their  darling, 
may  not  this  very  hour  be  hurrying  to  the  Patent 
Office,  filching  rights  and  the  patronage  of  rich 
men,  ruining  perhaps  for  ever  by  their  folly  or 
avarice  or  imperfection  the  whole  glory  of  the 
conception. 

Stephen  had  this  sort  of  secret  fear.  They 
seemed  so  obvious  now,  his  idea  and  his  scheme  of 
execution,  though  at  their  birth  they  had  seemed 
so  strange  and  bold  and  original.  Surely  some 
other  man  had  long  since  thought  of  writing  a 
poem  like  his,  was  even  now  correcting  his  proofs, 
some  mean  and  barren  artist  who  could  never  do 
[200] 


The  House  by  the  River 

justice  to  the  theme,  but  would  make  it  for  ever  a 
stale  and  tawdry  thing.  Or  maybe  in  the  winter 
there  would  be  a  paper  shortage  or  a  printers' 
strike  or  a  revolution,  and  if  his  masterpiece  had 
not  seen  the  light  by  then  it  would  never  see  the 
light  at  all;  or  at  best  there  would  be  long  months 
of  intolerable  waiting,  and  it  would  be  given  to 
the  world  at  the  wrong  season,  when  the  world 
was  no  longer  inspired  with  the  sense  of  chivalry, 
when  the  critics  were  bored  with  chivalry,  at 
Christmas  time  when  men  looked  for  lighter  fare, 
or  in  the  spring,  when  men  wanted  nothing  but 
the  spring. 

So  all  that  August  he  worked,  thinking  little 
of  Margery,  thinking  little  of  any  one.  But 
though  there  was  this  fever  of  purpose  and  anxiety 
driving  him  on,  day  by  day  the  labour  grew  more 
wearisome  and  difficult.  Men  who  go  out  to  of- 
fices or  factories  to  do  their  work  think  enviously 
sometimes  of  the  gentler  lot  of  the  author,  bound 
by  no  regulations  or  hours  or  personal  entangle- 
ments, but  able  to  sit  down  at  his  own  time  at  his 
own  desk  and  put  down  without  physical  labour 
or  nervous  strain  the  easy  promptings  of  his  brain. 
They  do  not  know  with  how  much  terror  and  dis- 
taste he  may  have  to  drag  himself  to  that  desk, 
with  what  agony  of  mind  he  sits  there.  The  ner- 
vous weariness  of  writing,  the  physical  weariness 
of  writing,  the  mental  incubus  of  a  great  concep- 

[201] 


The  House  by  the  River 

tion  that  must  be  carried  unformed  in  the  heavy 
mind  month  after  weary  month,  for  ever  growing 
and  swelling  and  bursting  to  be  born,  yet  not  able 
to  be  born,  because  this  labour  of  writing  is  so 
long,  the  hideous  labour  of  writing  and  rewriting 
and  correcting,  of  futile  erasions  and  vacillations 
and  doubt,  of  endless  worryings  over  little  words 
and  tragic  sacrifices  and  fresh  starts  and  rear- 
rangements —  these  are  terrible  things.  An  au- 
thor is  to  his  work  as  a  rejected  lover  his  love, 
for  ever  drawn  yet  for  ever  repelled.  Stephen 
sometimes  in  the  morning  would  almost  long  to 
be  transformed  into  a  clerk,  or  a  railway  porter, 
some  one  who  need  ask  little  of  himself  since 
little  is  asked  of  him  but  the  simple  observance 
of  a  routine;  he  would  have  to  force  himself  to 
sit  on  at  his  work,  as  a  man  forces  himself  to 
face  danger  or  bear  pain;  he  would  even  welcome 
interruptions,  yet  bitterly  resent  them;  for  when 
the  words  would  not  come  or  would  not  arrange 
themselves,  when  nothing  went  absolutely  right, 
any  distraction  was  sweet  which  legitimately  for 
a  single  hour  released  him  from  the  drudgery  of 
thought;  and  yet  it  was  hateful,  for  it  postponed 
yet  another  hour  the  end  of  that  drudgery,  and 
in  that  precious  hour  —  who  knows?  —  the 
divine  ease  and  assurance  might  have  returned, 
the  maddening  difficulties  melted  away,  so  strange 
and  fitful  are  the  springs  of  inspiration. 
[202] 


The  House  by  the  River 

So  all  these  weeks  he  worked  and  saw  nobody; 
he  did  not  see  Muriel,  though  the  Tarrants  were 
still  at  home,  and  he  did  not  see  John,  who  had 
gone  away  to  Devonshire  with  a  fellow  Civil 
Servant.  But  at  last  in  the  third  week  the  labour 
was  finished.  It  was  finished  at  sunset  on  a 
breathless  evening;  he  finished  it  with  a  glowing 
sense  of  contentment  with  good  work  done. 
Then  he  read  it  over,  from  beginning  to  end. 
And  as  he  read  the  glow  faded,  the  contentment 
departed.  The  mournful  disillusion  of  achieve- 
ment began.  Here  and  there  were  phrases  which 
stirred,  passages  which  satisfied;  but  for  the  most 
part  he  read  his  work  with  a  sort  of  sick  shame 
and  disappointment.  Who  in  the  wide  world 
could  read  these  stale  and  wearisome  lines?  Each 
of  them  at  one  time  had  seemed  the  fresh  and  per- 
fect expression  of  a  fine  thought;  each  of  them  was 
the  final  choice  of  numberless  alternatives;  but  so 
often  he  had  read  them,  so  often  written  them,  so 
often  in  his  head  endlessly  recited  them,  in  the 
streets  and  on  the  river  or  in  the  dark  night,  that 
they  were  all  old  now,  old  and  dull. 

He  had  learned  by  long  experience  to  discount 
a  little  this  gloomy  and  inevitable  reaction,  and 
now  as  he  turned  over  the  final  page  of  spidery 
manuscript,  he  tried  hard  to  restore  his  faith,  re- 
minding himself  that  the  world  would  see  his 
work  as  he  saw  it  first  himself,  and  not  as  he 

[203] 


The  House  by  the  River 

saw  it  now.  Anyhow,  it  was  done,  and  could  not 
be  mended  any  more.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better 
when  it  was  typed.  Bujt  then  the  drudgery  would 
begin  again  —  the  reading  and  re-reading  and 
alteration  and  doubt,  the  weary  numbering  of 
pages,  the  weary  correction  of  typist's  lunacies. 
And  after  that  there  would  be  proofs  and  the  cor- 
recting of  proofs;  then  new  doubts  would  dis- 
cover themselves,  and  the  old  doubts  would  live 
again;  and  he  would  hate  it.  Yet  it  would  be 
better  then  —  it  would  be  better  in  print.  Now 
he  was  tired  of  it  and  would  forget  it.  He  felt 
the  impulse  to  relaxation  and  indulgence  and  rest 
which  drives  athletes  to  excesses  when  their  race 
is  run,  their  long  discipline  over.  He  went  out 
into  the  garden  and  into  the  boat,  and  paddled 
gently  up-stream  with  the  tide,  under  the  bank. 
It  was  nearly  ten  and  the  sun  was  long  down. 
There  was  no  moon  and  it  was  dark  on  the  river 
with  the  brilliant  darkness  of  a  starry  night.  He 
paddled  gently  past  John's  house,  scarcely  moving 
the  oars;  past  Mr.  Farraday's  and  the  two  moored 
barges  at  the  Bakery  wharf.  He  drifted  under 
the  fig-tree  by  the  Whittakers',  and  came  near  to 
the  house  of  the  Tarrants.  The  Tarrants'  house, 
like  his  own,  was  on  the  river  side  of  the  road, 
and  their  garden  ran  down  to  a  low  wall  over  the 
water.  As  he  came  out  from  under  the  fig-tree 
he  looked  up  over  his  shoulder  at  the  house;  and 
[204] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Muriel  Tarrant  was  in  his  mind.  There  was  a 
figure  in  a  white  dress  leaning  motionless  over 
the  wall,  and  as  he  looked  up  the  figure  stirred 
sharply.  Then  he  began  to  tremble  with  a  curi- 
ous excitement,  for  he  saw  that  it  was  Muriel 
herself.  He  dipped  the  oars  in  the  water  and 
stopped  the  boat  under  the  wall. 

She  said,  very  softly,  "  Mr.  Byrne?  " 

He  said,  "  Muriel,"  and  his  voice  was  no  more 
than  a  whisper.  But  she  heard. 

Then  there  was  an  intolerable  silence,  and  they 
stared  at  each  other  through  the  gloom;  and  noth- 
ing moved  anywhere  but  the  smooth,  hurrying 
water  chuckling  faintly  round  the  boat  and  against 
the  oars  and  along  the  wall.  They  were  silent, 
and  their  hearts  beat  with  a  guilty  urgency;  and 
in  the  thoughts  of  both  was  the  same  riot  of  doubt 
and  scruple  and  exquisite  excitement. 

Stephen  said  at  last, —  and  in  his  voice  there 
was  again  that  stealthy  hoarseness, —  "  Come  out 
in  the  boat!  " 

She  hesitated.  She  looked  quickly  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  house,  which  was  quite  dark,  be- 
cause her  mother  and  their  only  servant  had  gone 
early  to  bed.  Then  without  a  word  she  came 
down  the  steps.  She  gave  him  a  hot  hand  that 
quivered  in  his  as  he  helped  her  down.  Quietly 
he  pushed  off  the  boat;  but  on  the  Island  a  swan 
heard  them  and  flew  away  with  a  startling  clatter, 

[205] 


The  House  by  the  River 

looking  very  large  against  the  stars.  Still  in 
silence  they  drifted  away  under  the  trees  past  the 
Tathams'  and  past  the  brewery,  and  past  the  Pet- 
ways'  and  the  ferry  and  the  church.  There  was 
something  in  this  silence  very  suggestive  of  wrong, 
making  them  already  confessed  conspirators. 
Muriel  somehow  felt  this,  and  said  at  last: 

"  Mother's  gone  to  bed.  I  mustn't  be  long." 
Her  voice  and  her  words  and  her  low  delight- 
ful laugh  broke  the  spell  of  self-conscious  wicked- 
ness which  had  held  them.  They  felt  at  last  that 
they  really  were  in  this  boat  with  each  other 
under  the  stars;  it  was  no  fantastic  dream  but  an 
amusing  and,  after  all,  quite  ordinary  adventure, 
nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  or  furtive  about  —  a 
gentleman  and  a  lady  boating  in  the  evening  on 
the  Thames. 

So  Stephen  steered  out  into  mid-stream  and 
pulled  more  strongly  now,  away  past  the  empty 
meadows,  and  the  first  low  houses  of  Barnes,  and 
under  the  big  black  bridge,  and  round  the  bend 
by  the  silent  factories.  Then  there  were  a  few 
last  houses,  very  old  and  dignified,  and  you  came 
out  suddenly  into  a  wide  reach  where  there  moved 
against  the  stars  a  long  procession  of  old  elms, 
and  the  banks  were  clothed  with  an  endless  tangle 
of  willows  and  young  shrubs,  drooping  and  dip- 
ping in  the  water.  The  tide  lapped  among  thick 
reeds,  and  there  was  no  murmur  of  London  to  be 
[206] 


The  House  by  the  River 

heard,  and  no  houses  to  be  seen  nor  the  lights  of 
houses.  It  was  a  corner  of  startling  solitude,  for- 
gotten somehow  in  the  urge  of  civilization;  as  if 
none  had  had  a  heart  to  build  a  factory  there  or 
a  brewery  or  a  wharf,  but  had  built  them  reso- 
lutely to  the  east  or  to  the  west  and  all  around, 
determined,  if  they  could,  to  spare  this  little  relic 
of  the  old  country  Thames. 

And  here  Stephen  stopped  rowing,  and  tied  his 
boat  to  a  willow  branch;  and  Muriel  watched  him, 
saying  nothing.  Then  he  sat  down  beside  her  in 
the  wide  stern-seat.  She  turned  her  head  and 
looked  at  him,  very  pale  against  the  trees.  And 
he  put  his  arm  about  her  and  kissed  her. 

It  was  very  hot  in  that  quiet  place,  and  the 
night  lay  over  them  like  a  velvet  covering,  heavy 
and  sensuous  and  still.  In  each  of  them  there 
was  the  sense  that  this  had  been  inevitable. 
They  had  known  that  it  must  happen  in  that 
breathless  moment  at  the  garden  wall.  And 
this  was  somehow  comforting  to  the  conscience. 

So  they  sat  there  for  a  little  longer,  clinging 
tremorously  in  an  ecstasy  of  passion.  A  tug 
thrashed  by;  there  was  a  sudden  tumult  of  splash- 
ing in  the  willows  and  in  the  reeds  and  the  boat 
rocked  violently  against  the  branches.  Stephen 
fended  her  off. 

Then  they  sat  whispering  and  looking  at  the 
stars.  It  was  a  clear  and  wonderful  sky  and  no 

[207] 


The  House  by  the  River 

star  was  missing.  Stephen  told  her  the  names  of 
stars  and  the  stories  about  them.  And  she  mur- 
mured dreamily  that  she  saw  and  understood; 
but  she  saw  nothing  and  understood  nothing  but 
the  marvellous  completeness  of  her  conquest  of 
this  man,  and  the  frightening  completeness  of  his 
conquest  of  her.  She  had  never  meant  that  things 
should  go  so  far. 

And  he,  as  he  looked  at  the  stars  and  the 
freckled  gleam  upon  the  waters  and  the  hot  white 
face  of  the  girl  at  his  side,  thought  also,  "  I 
did  not  mean  it  to  go  so  far.  But  it  is  romance, 
this  —  it  is  poetry,  and  rich  experience  —  so  it 
it  justified."  And  what  he  meant  was,  "  It  is 
copy." 

The  tide  turned  at  last,  and  they  drifted  softly 
and  luxuriously  down  to  Hammerton  Reach,  and 
stole  at  midnight  under  the  hushed  gardens  of 
The  Chase  to  the  Tarrants'  wall.  And  there 
again  they  kissed  upon  the  steps.  He  whispered 
hotly,  "  Tomorrow !  "  and  she  whispered,  "  Yes 
—  if  I  can  -<-"  and  was  gone. 

In  the  morning  there  came  a  letter  from  Mar- 
gery, beseeching  him  to  come  to  her  as  soon  as 
he  could  —  a  pathetic,  gentle  little  letter.  She 
drew  a  picture  of  the  peace  and  beauty  of  the 
place,  and  ended  acutely  by  emphasizing  its  pos- 
sibilities as  an  inspiration  to  poetry. 

"  Do  come  down,  my  darling,  as  soon  as  you 
[208] 


The  House  by  the  River 

can.  I  do  want  you  to  be  here  with  me  for  a  bit. 
I  know  you  want  to  finish  the  poem,  but  this  is 
such  a  heavenly  place,  I'm  sure  it  would  help  you 
to  finish  it;  I  sometimes  feel  like  writing  poetry 
myself  here !  Joan  says  that  Daddy  must  come 
quick!" 

Stephen  wrote  back,  with  a  bewildered  wonder 
at  himself,  that  he  had  nearly  finished,  but  could 
not  get  away  for  at  least  a  week.  That  day  he 
wrote  a  love-song  —  dedicated  "To  M."  He 
had  never  written  anything  of  the  kind  before, 
and  it  excited  him  as  nothing  in  "  Chivalry  "  had 
ever  excited  him. 

All  that  week  the  tide  was  high  in  the  evenings, 
and  on  the  third  day  the  moon  began.  And 
every  night,  when  all  Hammerton  had  gone 
to  their  early  beds,  he  paddled  secretly  to  the 
Tarrants'  steps,  still  drunk  with  amorous  excite- 
ment and  the  sense  of  stealthy  adventure.  Every 
night  Muriel  was  waiting  on  the  wall,  slim  and 
tremulous  and  pale;  and  they  slipped  away  under 
the  bank  to  the  open  spaces  where  none  could 
see.  And  each  day  they  said  to  themselves  that 
this  must  be  the  last  evening,  for  disaster  must 
surely  come  of  these  meetings  and  these  kisses; 
and  each  day  looked  forward  with  a  hot  expect- 
ancy to  the  evening  that  was  to  come,  that  must  be 
the  end  of  this  delicious  madness.  Yet  every 
night  he  whispered,  "Tomorrow?"  and  every 

[209] 


The  House  by  the  River 

night  she  whispered,  "  If  I  can."  And  each  day 
he  wrote  a  new  love-song  —  dedicated  "  To  M." 
On  the  seventh  day  young  George  came  down 
to  see  his  sister,  and,  greatly  daring,  Stephen  pro- 
posed a  long  expedition  down  the  river  in  his 
motor-boat.  So  those  three  set  out  at  noon  and 
travelled  down  river  in  the  noisy  boat  through  the 
whole  of  London.  They  saw  the  heart  of  Lon- 
don as  it  can  only  be  seen  from  London's  river, 
the  beauty  of  Westminster  from  Vauxhall  and  the 
beauty  of  the  City  from  Westminster.  And  as  a 
man  walks  eastward  through  Aldgate  into  a  dif- 
ferent world,  they  left  behind  them  the  sleek 
dignity  of  Parliament  and  the  Temple  and  the 
Embankment  and  shot  under  Blackfriars  Bridge 
into  a  different  world  —  a  world  of  clustering, 
untidy  bridges  and  sheer  warehouses  and  endless 
wharves.  They  felt  very  small  in  the  little  boat 
that  spun  sideways  in  the  bewildering  eddies  round 
the  bridges  and  was  pulled  under  them  at  breath- 
less speed  by  the  confined  and  tremendous  tide. 
They  came  through  London  Bridge  into  a  heavy 
sea,  where  the  boat  pitched  and  wallowed  and 
tossed  her  head  and  plunged  suddenly  with  fright- 
ening violence  in  the  large  waves  that  ran  not 
one  way  only  but  rolled  back  obliquely  from  the 
massed  barges  by  the  banks,  and  dashed  at  each 
other  and  made  a  tumult  of  water,  very  difficult 
for  a  small  boat  to  weather.  Tugs  dashed  up 
[210] 


The  House  by  the  River 

and  down  and  across  the  river  with  the  disquiet- 
ing quickness  and  inconsequence  of  taxi-cabs  in  the 
narrow  space  between  the  barges  and  the  big 
steamers  huddled  against  the  wharves.  The  men 
in  them  looked  out  and  laughed  at  the  puny  white 
boat  plunging  sideways  under  Tower  Bridge. 
There  was  then  an  ocean-going  steamer  moving 
portentously  out,  and  Muriel  was  frightened  by 
the  size  of  the  ship,  and  the  noise  and  racket  of 
the  wharves,  and  the  hooting  tugs,  and  the  mad 
water  splashing  and  heaving  about  them.  But 
they  came  soon  past  Wapping  into  a  wide  and 
quieter  reach;  and  here  there  were  many  ships  and 
many  barges,  some  anchored  and  some  slowly  mov- 
ing, like  ships  in  a  dream.  All  of  them  were 
bright  with  colour  against  the  sky  and  against 
the  steel-blue  water  and  the  towering  muddle  of 
wharves  and  tall  chimneys  and  warehouses  upon 
the  banks.  The  sails  of  the  barges  stood  out  far 
off  in  lovely  patches  of  warm  brown,  and  their 
masts  shone  like  copper  in  the  sun.  Tucked 
away  among  the  wharves  and  cranes  were  old, 
mysterious  houses,  balconies  and  lady-like  win- 
dows looking  incongruously  over  coal-barges. 

But  it  was  all  mysterious  and  all  beautiful, 
Stephen  thought,  in  this  sunny  market  of  the 
Thames.  He  liked  the  strange  old  names  of 
the  places  they  passed,  and  told  them  lovingly  to 
Muriel  —  Limehouse  Causeway,  the  Wapping 

[mi 


The  House  by  the  River 

Old  Stairs,  and  Shadwell  Basin,  and  Cherry  Gar- 
den Pier;  and  he  loved  to  see  through  inlets  here 
and  there  the  high  forests  of  masts,  and  know 
that  yonder  were  the  special  mysteries  of  great 
docks;  for  for  such  things  he  had  the  romantic 
reverence  of  a  boy.  But  Muriel  saw  no  romance 
and  little  beauty  in  the  Pool  of  London,  and  her 
brother  George  saw  less.  She  saw  it  only  as  a 
strange  muddle  of  dirty  vessels  and  ugly  buildings, 
strongly  suggestive  of  slums  and  the  East:  End. 
It  was  noisy  sometimes,  and  she  had  been 
splashed  with  water  which  she  knew  was  dirty 
and  probably  infected;  she  felt  that  she  preferred 
the  westward  stretches  of  the  Thames,  where  nav- 
igation was  less  anxious  and  Stephen  was  not  so 
preoccupied  with  his  surroundings. 

Stephen  perceived  this  and  was  aware  of  a 
faint  disappointment.  Only  when  they  rounded 
a  bend  and  saw  suddenly  the  gleaming  pile  of 
Greenwich  Hospital,  brilliant  against  the  green 
hill  behind,  did  Muriel  definitely  admire.  And 
then,  Stephen  thought,  it  was  not  because  she  saw 
that  the  building  was  so  beautiful  from  that  an- 
gle and  in  that  light,  but  because  it  had  such  an 
air  of  cleanliness  and  austere  respectability  after 
the  orgy  of  raffish  and  commercial  scenery  which 
she  had  been  compelled  to  endure.  Or  perhaps 
it  was  because  at  Greenwich  Pier  they  were  going 
to  get  out  of  the  boat. 
[212] 


XIII 

THEY  came  home  in  the  gathering  dusk  on 
the  young  flood.  And  because  of  this 
and  because  it  was  Saturday  evening  they 
had  the  river  to  themselves,  and  moved  almost 
alone  through  the  silent  and  deserted  Pool.  They 
followed  slowly  after  the  sun  and  saw  the  Tower 
Bridge  as  a  black  scaffolding  framing  the  last 
glow  of  yellow  and  gold.  All  the  undiscovered 
colours  of  sunset  and  half-darkness  lay  upon  the 
water,  smooth  now  and  velvety,  and  they  fled 
away  in  front  of  the  boat  as  the  glow  departed. 
At  Blackfriars  the  moon  had  not  yet  come,  and 
Nature  had  made  thick  darkness;  but  man  had 
made  a  marvel  of  light  and  beauty  upon  the  water 
that  left  Stephen  silent  with  wonder.  The  high 
trams  swam  along  the  Embankment,  palaces  of 
light,  and  they  swam  yet  more  admirably  in  the 
water.  There  were  the  scattered  lights  of  houses, 
and  the  brilliant  lights  of  theatres,  and  the  opulent 
lights  of  hotels,  and  the  regimented  lights  of 
street-lamps,  and  the  sudden  little  lights  of  matches 
on  the  banks,  and  the  tiny  lights  of  cigarettes, 
where  men  hung  smoking  on  the  Embankment 
wall,  and  sometimes  a  bright,  inexplicable  light 


The  House  by  the  River 

high  up  among  the  roofs;  and  the  lights  of  Par- 
liament, and  at  last  the  light  of  the  young  moon 
peeping  shyly  over  a  Lambeth  brewery  —  and  all 
these  lights  were  different  and  beautiful  in  the 
dark,  and  made  a  glory  of  the  muddy  water.  The 
small  boat  travelled  on  in  the  lonely  darkness  of 
mid-stream,  and  to  Stephen  it  seemed  a  wonder- 
ful thing  that  no  other  but  he  and  Muriel  and  her 
brother  George  could  look  as  they  could  upon 
those  magical  lights  and  the  magical  patterns  that 
the  water  had  made  of  them.  He  had  a  sense 
of  remoteness,  of  privileged  remoteness  from  the 
world;  yet  he  had  a  yearning  for  pleasant  com- 
panionship, and  itched  for  the  moment  when 
young  George  was  to  leave  them  to  go  to  his 
Club. 

Young  George  left  them  at  Westminster  Pier, 
and  those  two  went  on  together  in  the  boat. 
The  lights  of  Chelsea  were  as  beautiful  as  the 
lights  of  Westminster,  and  Stephen  thought  sud- 
denly of  Margery's  description  of  evening  by  the 
Solent.  It  was  hardly  necessary  to  go  so  far 
for  loveliness,  he  thought.  He  was  glad  that 
Muriel  was  with  him,  because  she  too  was  lovely, 
but  when  she  clung  to  him  in  the  old  passionate 
way  he  kissed  her  very  gently  and  without  fire. 
For  the  poetry  of  all  that  he  had  seen  that  day 
had  somehow  purged  him  of  the  extravagant 
fever  of  the  previous  nights;  and  he  imagined, 


The  House  by  the  River 

unreasonably,  that  she  too  would  be  ready  for 
this  refinement  of  their  relations.  But  she  was 
not.  She  was  tired  with  the  long  day,  with  try- 
ing to  share  an  enthusiasm  which  she  did  not  un- 
derstand, for  colours  which  she  did  not  see,  and 
lights  which  after  all  were  only  the  ordinary  lights 
she  saw  in  the  streets  on  the  way  to  dances;  she 
wanted  to  have  done  with  that  kind  of  thing  now 
that  they  were  alone  again;  she  wanted  to  be 
hotly  embraced  and  hotly  kissed.  For  the  end  of 
this  adventure  was  terribly  near  now.  After  to- 
morrow her  brother  was  coming  to  live  at  home 
again;  after  that  there  would  be  no  more  safety. 
Tomorrow  would  be  the  last  night. 

Of  all  this  Stephen  was  but  vaguely  sensible. 
She  was  still  a  sweet  and  adorable  companion, 
and  his  soul  was  still  bursting  with  poetry  and 
romance,  but  it  was  the  poetry  of  the  moonlit 
Thames  rather  than  the  poetry  of  a  furtive  pas- 
sion. And  because  of  this,  and  because  he  was 
dimly  conscious  that  she  looked  for  some  more 
violent  demonstration  than  he  was  able  in  the 
flesh  to  give,  he  thought  suddenly  of  the  Love- 
Songs  which  he  had  made  to  her,  but  never  men- 
tioned: and  he  wondered  if  they  would  please  her. 
He  stopped  the  engine  and  let  the  boat  drift. 
Then,  very  softly,  in  a  voice  timid  at  first  with 
self-consciousness,  but  gathering  body  and  feeling 
as  he  went  on,  he  spoke  for  her  the  words  of 


The  House  by  the  River 

his  Love-Songs.  At  the  end  he  felt  that  they 
were  very  good,  better  than  he  had  thought,  and 
waited  anxiously  to  hear  what  she  would  say. 
And  she  listened  in  bewilderment.  She  was  flat- 
tered in  her  vanity  that  a  poet  should  have  written 
them  for  her;  but  she  did  not  understand  them, 
and  she  was  not  moved  or  deeply  interested. 

She  said  at  last:  "  How  nice,  Stephen!  Did 
you  really  make  up  all  that  about  me?  " 

And  at  that  the  last  flicker  of  the  fire  which 
had  burned  in  him  for  so  many  days  went  out. 
He  saw  clearly  for  the  first  time  the  insane  un- 
fitness  of  their  intimacy.  In  the  first  fascination 
of  his  senses,  in  the  voluptuous  secrecy  of  their 
meetings  under  the  moon,  he  had  asked  nothing 
of  her  intellect;  he  had  been  content  with  the 
touch  of  her  hands,  with  the  warm  seduction  of 
her  kisses.  And  these,  too,  were  still  precious, 
but  they  were  not  enough.  They  were  not  enough 
to  a  poet  on  a  night  of  poetry  now  that  his  senses 
were  almost  satisfied. 

So  all  the  way  home  he  held  her  gently  and 
talked  to  her  tenderly,  as  he  might  have  talked 
to  Margery.  And  Muriel  saw  that  she  must  be 
content  with  that  for  this  night,  and  was  happy 
and  quiet  beside  him. 

But  when  they  parted  under  the  wall  it  was 
she  who  whispered,  "  Tomorrow  —  the  last 
time,"  and  it  was  he  who  whispered,  "  Yes." 


The  House  by  the  River 

In  the  morning  he  woke  with  a  vague  sense  of 
distaste  for  something  that  he  had  to  do.  All 
that  day  he  had  this  restless,  dissatisfied  feeling. 
And  this  was  in  part  the  first  stirring  of  the  im- 
pulse to  write  which  came  always  when  he  had 
no  work  in  progress  and  no  great  effort  forming 
in  his  mind. 

The  weary  reaction  from  the  finishing  of 
"  Chivalry  "  was  over,  and  the  creative  itch  was 
upon  him,  which  could  not  be  satisfied  by  the  mak- 
ing of  little  Love-Songs.  And  he  felt  no  more 
like  the  making  of  Love-Songs. 

He  wished  almost  that  he  might  hurry  imme- 
diately down  to  Hampshire.  But  his  promise  for 
the  evening  prevented  that. 

He  sat  down  in  the  sunny  window-seat  and 
thought,  pondering  gloomily  the  wild  events  of 
these  summer  months.  And  as  he  brooded  over 
them  with  regret  and  sadness,  and  the  beginnings 
of  new  resolutions,  there  flashed  from  them,  with 
the  electric  suddenness  of  genuine  inspiration,  the 
bright  spark  of  a  new  idea,  a  new  idea  for  the 
new  work  which  he  was  aching  to  begin.  Thereon 
his  mood  of  repentance  faded  away,  and  the  moral 
aspect  of  the  things  he  had  done  dissolved  into  the 
background  —  like  fairies  at  a  pantomime;  and 
there  was  left  the  glowing  vision  of  a  work  of  art. 

He  was  excited  by  this  vision,  and  immediately 
was  busy  with  a  sheet  of  paper  —  like  a  painter 

[217] 


The  House  by  the  River 

capturing  a  first  impression  —  jotting  down  in  un- 
decipherable half-words  and  initials  the  rough 
outline  of  his  plan,  even  the  names  of  his  char- 
acters and  a  few  odd  phrases.  There  moved  in 
his  mind  a  seductive  first  line  for  the  opening 
of  this  poem,  and  that  line  determined  in  the  end 
the  whole  question  of  metre;  for  it  was  an  in- 
spired line,  and  it  was  in  exactly  the  right  metre. 

All  the  afternoon  he  sat  in  the  shady  corner  of 
the  garden  over  the  river,  dreaming  over  the  struc- 
ture of  this  poem.  In  the  evening  he  began  to 
work  upon  it;  and  all  the  evening  he  worked,  with 
a  feverish  concentration  and  excitement.  At 
about  ten  o'clock  the  moon  was  well  up,  and  the 
rising  tide  was  lapping  and  murmuring  already 
about  the  wall  and  about  the  boats.  And  he  did 
not  forget  Muriel;  he  did  not  forget  his  promise. 
He  knew  that  she  was  waiting  for  him,  silent  on 
the  wall.  He  knew  that  he  was  bound  in  honour, 
or  in  dishonour,  to  go  to  her.  But  he  did  not  go. 
He  had  done  with  that.  And  he  had  better 
things  to  do  tonight. 

So  Muriel  leaned  lonely  over  the  wall,  looking 
down  the  river  past  the  fig-tree  and  the  barges, 
looking  and  listening.  The  moon  rose  high  over 
Wimbledon,  and  the  twin  red  lights  of  the  Stork 
were  lit,  and  the  yellow  lights  twinkled  in  the 
houses  and  bobbed  along  the  bridge,  and  the  great 
[218] 


The  House  by  the  River 

tide  rolled  up  with  a  rich  suggestion  of  fulfilment 
and  hope.  (Quiet  couples  drifted  by  in  hired  boats 
and  were  happy.  But  Stephen  did  not  come. 
And  Muriel  waited. 

St.  Peter's  clock  struck  eleven,  and  still  she 
waited,  in  a  flame  of  longing  and  impatience.  The 
dew  came  down,  and  she  was  cold;  the  chill  of 
foreboding  entered  her  heart.  And  still  she 
waited.  She  would  wait  till  half-past  eleven,  till 
a  quarter  of  twelve,  till  midnight.  She  knew 
now  that  she  loved  this  man  with  a  deep  and  con- 
suming love;  it  had  begun  lightly,  as  a  kind  of 
diversion,  but  the  game  had  turned  to  bitter 
earnest.  And  still  she  waited. 

It  was  slack  water  now,  and  the  river  stood 
still,  holding  its  breath.  Men  passed  singing 
along  the  towpath  on  the  outer  side;  the  song 
floated  over  the  water,  in  sentimental  tones  of 
exquisite  melancholy.  From  the  Island  a  wild- 
duck  rose  with  his  mate,  and  bustled  away  with  a 
startling  whir  to  some  sweet  haunt  among  the 
reeds.  A  cat  wailed  at  its  wooing  in  a  far  gar- 
den —  a  sickly  amorous  sound.  The  last  pair 
of  lovers  rowed  slowly  past,  murmuring  gently. 
Then  all  was  still,  and  Muriel  was  left  alone, 
alone  of  the  world's  lovers  thwarted  and  for- 
gotten. 

Midnight  struck,  and  she  crept  into  the  house 

[219] 


The  House  by  the  River 

and  into  her  bed,  sick  with  longing  and  the  rage 
of  shame. 

Stephen  at  midnight  went  in  contentment  to 
his  bed.     He  had  written  a  hundred  lines. 


[220] 


XIV 

LYING  in  bed  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go 
down  to  Margery  the  following  Tues- 
day. But  Margery,  too,  had  been  mak- 
ing up  her  mind.  She  wired  at  lunch  time,  and 
arrived  herself  at  tea.  She  was  tired,  she  said, 
of  living  alone  in  her  Paradise.  But  she  did  not 
scold  or  question  or  worry  him;  so  glad  she  was 
to  be  at  home  again  with  her  Stephen.  Stephen 
also  was  very  glad,  astonishingly  glad,  he  felt. 
He  greeted  her  and  kissed  her  with  a  tender 
warmth  which  surprised  them  both.  This  sud- 
den home-coming  of  his  wife,  of  chattering  Joan 
and  bubbling  Michael  and  comfortable  old  Nurse, 
and  all  that  atmosphere  of  staid  domesticity  which 
they  brought  with  them  into  the  house  seemed  to 
set  an  opportune  seal  on  his  new  resolutions,  on 
the  final  renunciation  which  he  had  made  last 
night.  It  was  the  one  thing  he  wanted,  he  felt, 
to  confirm  him  in  virtue. 

He  took  little  Joan  into  the  garden  to  see  the 
rabbits.  She  was  two  and  a  half  now,  a  bright 
and  spirited  child,  with  her  mother's  fairness  and 
fragile  grace,  and  something  of  Stephen's  vitality. 
She  greeted  with  delighted  cries  her  old  friends 

[221] 


The  House  by  the  River 

among  the  bunnies,  Peter  and  Maud  and  Henry, 
and  all  their  endless  progeny,  little  grey  bunnies 
and  yellow  bunnies  and  black  bunnies  and  tiny 
little  brown  bunnies  that  were  mere  scurrying 
balls  of  fur,  coloured  like  a  chestnut  mare.  The 
rabbit  Peter  and  the  rabbit  Maud  ran  out  of  their 
corners  and  sniffed  at  her  ankles,  their  noses 
twitching,  as  she  stood  in  the  sun.  She  stroked 
them  and  squeezed  them  and  kissed  them,  and 
they  bore  it  patiently  in  the  expectation  of  food. 
But  when  they  saw  that  she  had  no  food,  they 
stamped  petulantly  with  their  hind  legs  and  ran 
off.  Then  she  laughed  her  perfect  inimitable 
laugh,  and  tried  to  coax  the  tiniest  bunnies  to 
come  to  her  with  a  piece  of  decayed  cabbage;  and 
they  pattered  towards  her  in  a  doubtful  crescent, 
their  tiny  noses  twitching  with  the  precise  veloc- 
ity of  their  parents'  noses,  their  ears  cocked  for- 
ward in  suspicion.  When  they  had  eddied  back 
and  forth  for  a  little,  like  playful  children  de- 
fying the  sea,  they  saw  that  the  bait  was  indeed 
a  rotten  one,  unworthy  of  the  deed  of  daring 
which  was  asked  of  them,  and  they  scuttled  finally 
away  into  corners,  where  they  lay  heaving  with 
their  eyes  slewed  back,  looking  for  danger.  The 
rabbit  Maud  was  annoyed  by  the  clatter  they 
made,  and,'  chased  them  impatiently  about  the 
run,  nipping  them  viciously  at  the  back  of  their 
necks;  and  the  rabbit  Peter,  excited  beyond  bear- 
[222] 


The  House  by  the  River 

ing  by  the  commotion,  pursued  the  rabbit  Maud 
as  she  pursued  their  young.  Then  they  all 
stopped  suddenly  to  nibble  inconsequently  at  old 
bits  of  cabbage,  or  scratch  their  bellies,  or  scrab- 
ble vainly  on  the  stone  floor,  or  stamp  with  venom 
in  the  hutches,  or  lie  full  length  and  operate  their 
noses.  Little  Joan  loved  them  whatever  they  did, 
and  Stephen,  listening  and  watching  while  she  gur- 
gled and  exclaimed,  was  sensible  as  he  had  never 
been  before  of  the  pride  and  privilege  of  being  a 
father.  The  sight  of  his  daughter  playing  with 
the  young  rabbits,  young  and  playful  and  inno- 
cent as  they,  stirred  him  to  an  appropriate  and  al- 
most mawkish  remorse.  For  the  great  writer 
who,  by  his  gifts  of  selection  and  restraint,  can 
keep  out  from  his  writings  all  sentimentality  and 
false  emotion,  cannot  by  the  same  powers  keep 
them  from  his  mind.  Stephen  Byrne,  looking  at 
innocence  and  thinking  of  his  own  wickedness, 
forgot  his  proportions,  forgot  the  balanced  real- 
ism which  he  put  into  everything  he  wrote,  and 
swore  to  himself  that  by  this  sight  he  was  con- 
verted, that  by  this  revelation  of  innocence,  he, 
too,  would  be  innocent  again. 

So  they  began  again  the  quiet  routine  of  domes- 
tic content,  and  Margery  was  very  happy,  putting 
out  of  her  mind  as  an  artist's  madness  the  strange 
failure  of  Stephen  to  join  her  in  the  country.  In 
the  third  week  of  September  there  were  printed 

[223] 


The  House  by  the  River 

in  the  autumn  number  of  a  literary  Quarterly 
"  Six  Love-Songs,"  by  Stephen  Byrne,  which  he 
had  sent  in  hot  haste  to  the  editor  on  the  morning 
of  the  Greenwich  expedition.  There  was  printed 
above  them  the  dedication  "  To  M.,"  and  Mar- 
gery as  she  read  them  was  touched  and  melted 
with  a  great  tenderness  and  pride.  She  would 
not  speak  of  them  to  him,  but  she  looked  up, 
blushing,  at  the  end  of  them  and  said  only 
"Stephen!"  And  Stephen  cursed  himself  in  a 
hot  shame  for  having  thought  them  and  written 
them  and  sent  them  to  the  paper.  But  since  she 
liked  them  so  well,  and  appreciated  them  as 
Muriel  had  never  done,  and  since  he  persuaded 
himself  that  at  this  moment  he  might  have  writ- 
ten the  same  songs  to  his  wife,  so  tenderly  did  he 
think  of  her  now,  he  slowly  came  to  forget  the 
vicious  squalor  of  their  origin;  and  in  time,  when 
literary  friends  spoke  of  them  and  congratulated 
him  (for  they  made  a  great  stir)  the  shame  had 
all  gone,  and  he  answered  with  a  virtuous  and 
modest  pride,  as  if  indeed  they  had  been  written 
to  his  wife  —  and  so  in  fact  he  almost  believed. 

All  September  he  worked  steadily  at  the  new 
poem.  Very  soon  Margery  asked  if  she  might 
read  as  much  as  he  had  written.  And  first  he 
hesitated,  and  then  he  said  she  might  not. 

Not  till  that  moment  did  he  realize  the  true 
character  of  what  he  was  doing.  The  idea  of  the 
[224] 


The  House  by  the  River 

poem  was  very  simple.  He  had  taken  the  base 
history  of  his  own  life  in  this  amazing  summer, 
and  was  making  of  it  a  romantic  and  glorious 
poem.  Everything  was  there  —  Emily  and  his 
cruelty  to  Emily  and  the  chivalry  of  John  Eger- 
ton  and  his  treachery  to  John,  Margery,  and 
Muriel,  and  his  betrayal  of  both  of  them,  and  the 
second  treachery  to  John  in  the  stealing  of 
Muriel.  They  were  all  there,  and  the  deeds  were 
there.  But  the  names  they  bore  were  the  names 
of  old  knights  and  fine  ladies,  moving  generously 
through  an  age  of  chivalry  and  gallant  ways;  and 
the  deeds  he  had  done  were  invested  with  so  rich 
a  romance  by  the  grace  of  and  imagery  and  hu- 
manity of  his  verse,  and  by  the  gracious  atmos- 
phere of  knighthood  and  adventure  and  forest 
battles  which  he  wrapped  about  them,  that  they 
were  beautiful.  They  were  poetry.  Himself  in 
the  story  was  a  brave  and  legendary  figure,  Gelert 
by  name,  and  Margery,  the  Princess,  was  his  fair 
lady.  And  he  had  slain  Emily  by  mischance  in  a 
forest  encounter  with  another  knight.  He  had 
hidden  her  body  in  a  dark  mysterious  lake  in  the 
heart  of  the  forest;  this  lake  was  beautifully  de- 
scribed. John,  his  faithful  companion,  was  pres- 
ent and  helped  him,  and  because  of  the  honour  in 
which  he  held  the  Princess,  he  engaged  to  stay 
in  the  forest  and  do  battle  with  the  people  of 
Emily  if  they  should  discover  the  crime,  while 

[225] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Gelert  rode  off  on  some  secret  venture  of  an  ur- 
gent and  noble  character.  So  John  stayed,  and 
was  grievously  wounded.  But  Gelert  rode  off 
to  the  castle  of  John's  love  and  poisoned  her  mind 
against  John,  and  woed  her  and  won  her  and 
flung  her  away  when  he  was  tired  of  her;  but  she 
loved  him  still  too  well  to  love  any  other  from 
that  day;  and  when  John  came  to  her  she  cast 
him  out.  More,  because  he  was  the  companion- 
at-arms  of  Gelert,  and  she  would  do  anything  to 
wound  Gelert,  she  sent  word  to  the  people  of 
Emily  that  it  was  John  indeed  who  had  slain 
Emily,  and  they  sought  him  out  and  slew  him. 
But  Gelert  went  home  to  his  castle  and  swore 
great  vows  in  passages  of  amazing  dignity,  and 
was  absolved  from  his  sins,  and  ruled  the  land  for 
a  long  time  in  godly  virtue,  helping  the  weak  and 
succouring  the  oppressed.  And  so  finely  was  all 
this  presented  that  at  the  end  of  it  you  felt  but  a 
conventional  sympathy  for  the  unfortunate  John, 
while  Gelert  remained  in  the  mind  as  a  mixed,  but 
on  the  whole  a  knightly  character. 

It  was  a  lunatic  excess  of  self-revelation,  and 
Stephen  was  afraid  of  it.  Nothing  would  have 
persuaded  him  to  modify  in  any  way  his  artistic 
purpose,  and  in  his  heart  he  flattered  himself  that 
the  romantic  disguise  of  his  story  was  strong 
enough  to  protect  it  from  the  suggestion  of  reality. 
It  would  stand  that  test,  he  was  sure.  Yet  he  was 
[226] 


The  House  by  the  River 

not  sure  —  not  at  any  rate  just  now,  with  the 
sordid  facts  still  fresh  in  his  mind.  Later,  no 
doubt,  when  the  thing  was  complete,  and  he  could 
polish  and  prune  it  as  a  whole,  he  would  be  able 
to  make  himself  absolutely  safe.  But  just  now, 
while  the  work  was  still  shadowy  and  formless,  he 
shrank  from  risking  the  revelations  it  might  con- 
vey. To  Margery  most  of  all.  Also,  maybe, 
he  was  a  little  afraid  that  she  would  laugh  at 
him. 

And  Margery  said  nothing,  but  wondered  to 
herself  what  it  might  mean. 

John  came  home  in  the  middle  of  September, 
and  called  the  same  evening  at  the  Tarrants' 
house.  But  he  was  told  after  a  long  wait  that 
they  were  not  at  home. 

The  next  morning,  as  he  walked  to  the  station, 
he  passed  in  the  street  a  parcel  delivery  van.  On 
the  front  of  it  were  the  twin  red  posters  of  I  Say, 
a  weekly  organ  of  the  sensational  patriotic  type. 
It  was  a  paper  which  did  in  fact  a  great  deal  of 
good  in  championing  the  cause  of  the  under-dog, 
yet  at  the  same  time  impressing  upon  the  under- 
dog the  highest  constitutional  principles.  But  it 
had  to  live.  And  it  lived  by  the  weekly  promises 
of  sensation  which  blazed  at  the  public  from  the 
red  posters  all  over  England,  and  travelled  every- 
where on  the  front  of  delivery  vans  and  the  backs 

[227] 


The  House  by  the  River 

of  buses.  There  was  seldom  more  than  a  single 
sensation  to  each  issue.  But  the  very  most  was 
made  of  it  by  an  ingenious  contrivance  of  the  edi- 
tor, who  himself  arranged  the  wording  of  the 
posters;  for  each  sensation  he  composed  two  and 
sometimes  three  quite  different  posters,  cunningly 
devised  so  that  any  man  who  saw  all  three  of  them 
was  as  likely  as  not  to  buy  the  paper  in  the  con- 
fident belief  that  he  was  getting  for  his  penny 
three  separate  sensations. 

The  two  posters  that  John  saw  ran  as  follows: 
one  "  A  CIVIL  SERVANT'S  NAME,"  and  the  other 
"  OUR  ROTTEN  DETECTIVES."  At  the  station  he 
saw  another  one  specially  issued  to  the  West  Lon- 
don paper  stalls  — "  MYSTERY  OF  HAMMERTON 
CHASE."  And  at  Charing  Cross  there  was  yet 
another  — "  WHO  OUGHT  TO  BE  HANGED?  " 

John  had  no  doubt  of  what  he  would  find  in  the 
paper.  He  had  wondered  often  at  the  long  qui- 
escence of  the  Gaunt  family.  Clearly  they  had 
taken  their  tale  to  the  editor  of  /  Say,  and  had 
probably  been  suitably  compensated  for  their 
trouble  and  expense  in  bringing  to  the  notice  of 
the  people's  champion  a  shameful  case  of  oppres- 
sion and  wrong. 

So  John  walked  on  to  the  station  with  a  strange 
feeling  of  lightness  in  the  head  and  pain  in  his 
heart.  At  Hammersmith  there  was  no  copy  of 
/  Say  to  be  had;  at  Charing  Cross  he  bought  two. 
[228] 


The  House  by  the  River 

The  week's  sensation  was  dealt  with  in  a  double- 
page  article  by  the  editor,  diabolically  clever.  It 
set  out  at  length  the  sparse  facts  of  "  The  Ham- 
merton  Mystery  "  as  revealed  at  the  inquest,  with 
obsequious  references  to  "  the  genius  of  Stephen 
Byrne,  the  poet  and  prophet  of  Younger  Eng- 
land " ;  and  it  contained  some  scathing  comments 
on  "  the  crass  ineptitude  of  our  detective  organi- 
zation." But  it  attacked  no  person,  it  imputed 
nothing.  The  sole  concern  of  the  editor  was  that 
"  months  have  passed  and  a  hideous  crime  is  yet 
unpunished.  This  poor  girl  went  forth  from  her 
father  and  mother,  and  the  young  man  who  had 
promised  to  share  her  life;  she  went  out  into  the 
world,  innocent  and  fresh,  to  help  her  family  in 
the  battle  of  life  with  the  few  poor  shillings  she 
could  earn  by  menial  services  in  a  strange  house. 
It  was  not  her  fault  that  she  was  attractive  to  a 
certain  type  of  man;  but  that  attraction  was  no 
doubt  her  undoing.  She  took  the  fancy  of  some 
amorous  profligate ;  she  resisted  his  unknightly  at- 
tentions; she  was  done  to  death.  Her  body  was 
consigned  in  circumstances  of  the  foullest  indig- 
nity to  a  filthy  grave  in  the  river  ooze. 

"  We  are  entitled  to  ask  —  What  are  the  police 
doing?  The  matter  has  faded  now  from  the  pub- 
lic memory  —  has  it  faded  from  theirs?  It  is 
certain  that  it  has  not  faded  in  the  loyal  hearts  of 
the  Gaunt  family.  At  the  time  of  the  inquest  the 

[229] 


The  House  by  the  River 

public  were  preoccupied  with  national  events  of 
the  first  importance,  and  the  murder  did  not  ex- 
cite the  attention  it  deserved.  We  have  only  too 
good  reason  to  believe  that  our  Criminal  Inves- 
tigation mandarins,  supine  as  ever  until  they  are 
goaded  to  activity  by  the  spur  of  popular  opinion, 
are  taking  advantage  of  that  circumstance  to  al- 
low this  piece  of  blackguardly  wickedness  to  sink 
for  ever  into  oblivion.  We  do  not  intend  that  it 
should  sink  into  oblivion,  etc.  etc." 

But  in  the  tail  of  the  article  lay  the  personal 
sting,  cleverly  concealed. 

"  But  there  is  another  aspect  of  this  vile  affair 
which  we  are  compelled  to  notice.  While  the 
family  of  the  murdered  girl  are  nursing  silently 
their  broken  hearts;  while  our  inspectors  and 
chief  inspectors  and  criminal  investigators  are  en- 
joying their  comfortable  salaries,  there  is  a  young 
man  in  Hammerton,  a  public  servant  of  high 
character  and  irreproachable  antecedents,  over 
whom  a  black  cloud  of  suspicion  is  hanging  in 
connection  with  this  crime.  We  cannot  pretend 
that  his  evidence  at  the  inquest  was  wholly  satis- 
factory either  in  substance  or  in  manner;  it  was 
shiftily  given,  and  in  the  mind  of  any  men  less 
incompetent  than  the  local  coroner  and  the  local 
dunderheads  who  composed  the  jury,  would  have 
raised  questions  of  fundamental  importance.  But 

[230] 


The  House  by  the  River 

we  are  confident  that  John  Egerton  is  innocent; 
and  we  say  that  it  is  a  reproach  to  the  whole  sys- 
tem of  British  justice  that  he  should  still  be  an 
object  of  ignorant  suspicion  owing  to  the  failure 
of  the  police-force  to  hound  down  the  villain  re- 
sponsible for  the  crime. 

"  The  fair  name  of  a  good  citizen  is  at  stake. 
It  must  be  cleared." 

At  the  office  there  were  whisperings  and  curious 
looks;  and  John's  chiefs  conferred  in  dismay  on 
a  position  of  delicacy  that  was  unexampled  in 
their  official  experience. 

John  went  home  early,  with  his  /  Say's  crum- 
pled in  his  pocket.  And  there  he  found  the  Rev. 
Peter  Tarrant  striding  about  impatiently  with  a 
copy  open  on  the  table  before  him.  His  head 
moved  about  like  a  great  bat  just  under  the  low 
roof;  his  jolly  red  face  was  as  full  of  anger  as  it 
could  ever  be. 

"  Look  here,  John,"  he  roared,  "  what  are  you 
going  to  do  about  this  —  this  MUCK?" 

"  Nothing." 

In  truth  he  had  thought  little  of  what  he  was 
going  to  do;  he  had  been  too  angry  and  bewil- 
dered and  ashamed.  Only  he  had  sworn  vaguely 
to  himself  that  whatever  happened  he  would 
stand  by  his  old  determination  to  keep  this  busi- 
ness from  Margery.  And,  now  that  the  question 


The  House  by  the  River 

was  put  to  him,  the  best  way  of  doing  that  was 
clearly  to  do  nothing.  He  began  to  think  of  rea- 
sons for  doing  nothing. 

The  Rev.  Peter  thundered  again,  "  Nothing? 
But  you  must  —  you  must  do  —  something." 
He  stuttered  with  impotent  rage  and  brought 
his  fist  down  on  /  Say  with  a  titanic  force,  so 
that  the  table  jumped  and  the  wedgwood  plate 
clattered  on  the  dresser.  "  You  can't  sit  down 
under  this  sort  of  thing  —  you  must  bring  an 
action  —  " 

"  Can't  afford  it;  it  would  cost  me  a  thousand 
if  I  won  —  and  five  thousand  if  —  if  I  lost." 

"  If  you  lost!  "  The  Rev.  Peter  looked  at  him 
in  wonder.  John  tried  to  look  him  straight  in  the 
face,  but  his  glance  wavered  in  the  shy  distress  of 
an  innocent  man  who  suspects  the  beginnings  of 
doubt  in  a  friend's  mind. 

"  Yes  —  you  know  what  a  Law  Court  is  — 
anything  may  happen  —  and  I  should  never  make 
a  good  show  in  the  witness  box,  if  I  stood  there 
for  ever." 

"  I  don't  care  —  you  can't  sit  down  under  it. 
You'll  lose  your  job,  won't  you  —  for  one  thing?  " 

"No  —  I  don't  know  —  I  can't  help  it  if  I 
do." 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  lose  that  you'll  lose 
Muriel."  The  Rev.  Peter  lowered  his  voice. 
"  Look  here,  I  want  you  two  to  fix  things  up. 

[232] 


The  House  by  the  River 

I've  just  been  to  see  her  —  she  looks  unhappy  — 
she's  lonely,  I  believe,  with  that  damned  old 
mother  of  hers.  But  you  can't  expect  her  to 
marry  you  with  this  sort  of  thing  going  about  un- 
contradicted." 

And  at  that  John  wavered.  But  he  thought 
of  Margery  and  his  knightly  vow,  and  he  thought 
of  the  witness  box;  of  himself  stammering  and 
shifting  hour  after  hour  in  that  box;  of  pictures 
in  the  Press;  of  columns  in  the  Press;  of  day  after 
day  of  public  wretchedness  —  the  inquest  over 
again  infinitely  enlarged.  And  he  thought  of  the 
open,  perhaps  inevitable,  ignominy  of  losing  a 
libel  action.  And  he  was  sure  that  he  was  right. 

They  argued  about  this  for  a  long  time,  and 
the  Rev.  Peter  yielded  at  last. 

But  he  bellowed  then,  "  Well,  you  must  write 
them  a  letter  at  once.  Sit  down  now,  and  I'll 
dictate  it.  Sit  down,  will  you?  By  God,  it 
makes  me  sweat,  this !  " 

John  sat  down  meekly  and  wrote  to  the  editor 
of  /  Say,  as  the  Rev.  Peter  commanded.  The 
Rev.  Peter  dictated  in  round  tones  of  a  man  prac- 
tising a  speech  r 

" '  Dear  Sir: 

'  I  have  seen  your  infamous  article.  It  is  a 
cruel  and  disgusting  libel.  I  wish  to  state  pub- 
licly that  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  death  of 

[233] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Emily  Gaunt;  that  so  far  as  I  know  no  sus- 
picion does  rest  upon  me  here  or  elsewhere;  and 
that,  if  indeed  there  is  suspicion,  it  is  not  in  the 
minds  of  any  one  whose  opinion  I  value,  and  I 
can  therefore  ignore  it.  In  any  case  I  should 
prefer  to  do  without  your  dirty  assistance.' ' 

"  Can't  say  '  dirty  ' —  can  we?  "  said  John. 

"  Why  not  ?  They  are  dirt  —  filth  —  muck ! 
Well,  then  —  put  '  dishonouring  ' — '  your  dishon- 
ouring assistance.'  Go  on: 

"  *  I  am  not  a  rich  man,  and  I  cannot  afford  to 
bring  an  action  for  libel  against  you.  A  success- 
ful suit  would  cost  me  far  more  money  and 
trouble  than  I  should  like  to  waste  upon  it.  You, 
on  the  other  hand,  could  easily  afford  to  lose  and 
would  probably  be  actually  benefited  by  a  sub- 
stantial increase  in  your  circulation. 

"  '  I  must  ask  you  to  print  this  letter  in  your 
next  issue  and  insist  also  on  an  unqualified  apology 
for  your  use  of  my  name. 

"  *  I  am  sending  this  letter  to  the  local  Press." 

The  editor  of  /  Say  did  not  print  this  letter,  as 
the  Rev.  Peter  had  fondly  imagined  he  would, 
but  he  referred  in  his  second  article,  which  was 
similar  to  the  first,  only  more  outspoken,  to  "  the 
receipt  of  an  abusive  letter  from  the  suspected 
person." 

[234] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Slowly  that  week  a  copy  of  /  Say  found  its  way 
into  every  house  in  The  Chase;  and  the  article 
was  read  and  discussed  and  argued  about,  and 
the  whole  controversy  of  May,  which  had  been 
almost  forgotten,  sprang  into  life  again.  And  the 
following  week  the  local  papers  were  bought  and 
borrowed  and  devoured,  and  John's  spirited  and 
courageous  letter  was  admired  and  laughed  at  and 
condemned.  The  Chase  fell  again  into  factions, 
though  now  the  Whittaker  (pro- John)  faction 
was  the  stronger.  For  nobody  liked  /  Say, 
though  it  was  always  exciting  to  read  when  there 
was  some  special  excuse  for  bringing  it  into  the 
house.  Besides,  the  honour  of  The  Chase  was 
now  at  stake. 

John  and  the  Rev.  Peter  had  reckoned  without 
the  generosity  and  communal  feeling  of  the  people 
of  The  Chase.  They  were  never  so  happy  as 
when  they  had  some  communal  enterprise  on  foot, 
a  communal  kitchen,  or  a  communal  creche  or  a 
communal  lawsuit,  some  joint  original  venture 
which  offered  reasonable  opportunities  for 
friendly  argument  and  committee  meetings  and 
small  subscriptions.  This  spirit  had  of  course 
unlimited  scope  during  the  war,  and  perhaps  it 
was  the  communal  Emergency  Food-Kitchen  that 
had  been  its  most  ambitious  and  perfect  expres- 
sion. But  it  lived  on  vigorously  after  the  war. 
Several  of  the  busiest  and  earliest  workers  among 

[*35] 


The  House  by  the  River 

the  men  shared  a  communal  taxi  into  town  every 
day.  There  was  a  communal  governess,  and  one 
or  two  semi-communal  boats.  There  was  also  a 
kind  of  communal  Housing  Council,  which  met 
whenever  a  house  in  The  Chase  was  to  be  let  or 
sold,  and  exerted  pressure  on  the  outgoing  tenant 
as  to  his  choice  of  a  successor.  Outside  friends 
of  The  Chase  who  desired  and  were  desired  to 
come  into  residence  were  placed  upon  a  roster  by 
the  Housing  Council,  and  when  the  Council's  edict 
had  once  gone  forth,  the  outgoing  tenant  was  ex- 
pected at  all  costs  to  see  that  the  chosen  person 
was  enabled  to  succeed  him,  and  if  he  did  not, 
or  if  he  allowed  the  owner  of  the  house  to  enter 
into  some  secret  arrangement  with  an  outsider, 
unknown  and  unapproved  by  the  Council,  it  was 
a  sin  against  the  solidarity  of  The  Chase. 

And  there  had  already  been  a  communal  law- 
suit, that  great  case  of  Stimpson  and  Others  versus 
The  Quick  Boat  Company  —  an  action  for  nui- 
sance brought  by  the  entire  Chase,  because  of  the 
endless  and  intolerable  noise  and  smell  of  the 
defendant  company's  motor-boats,  which  they 
manufactured  half  a  mile  up  the  river  and  exer- 
cised all  day  snorting  and  phutting  and  dashing 
about  with  loud  and  startling  reports  in  the  nar- 
row reach  between  the  Island  and  The  Chase. 

Nine  gallant  champions  had  stood  forward  with 
Stimpson  for  freedom  and  The  Chase.  But  all 

[236] 


The  House  by  the  River 

The  Chase  had  attended  the  preliminary  meet- 
ings; all  The  Chase  had  subscribed;  all  The 
Chase  and  all  their  wives  had  given  evidence  in 
Court;  and  before  this  unbroken,  or  almost  un- 
broken, front  (for  there  were  a  few  black  sheep) 
the  Quick  Boat  Company  had  gone  down  heavily. 
Judgment  for  the  plaintiffs  had  been  given  in  the 
early  spring. 

So  that  when  it  was  widely  understood  that  for 
lack  of  money  John  Egerton,  a  member  of  The 
Chase,  was  unable  to  defend  himself  from  a  scur- 
rilous libel  in  a  vulgar  paper,  the  deepest  instincts 
of  the  neighbourhood  were  aroused.  A  small  in- 
formal Committee  met  at  once  at  the  Whittakers' 
house  —  Whittaker  and  Mr.  Dimple  (for  legal 
advice)  and  Andrews  and  Tatham  and  Henry 
Stimpson.  Stephen  Byrne  was  asked  to  come,  but 
had  an  engagement. 

Mr.  Dimple's  advice  was  simple.  He  said  that 
subject  to  certain  reservations  —  as  to  which  he 
would  not  bother  the  Committee,  since  they  re- 
lated rather  to  the  incalculable  niceties  of  the  law, 
and  lawyers,  as  they  knew,  were  always  on  the  nice 
side  (laughter  —  but  not  much)  — and  assuming 
that  Mr.  Egerton  won  his  case,  as  to  which  he 
would  express  no  opinion,  though  as  a  man  he 
might  venture  to  say  that  he  knew  ot  no  one  in 
The  Chase  —  he  had  almost  said  no  one  in  Lon- 
don—  of  whom  it  would  be  more  unfair  —  he 

[237] 


The  House  by  the  River 

would  not  put  it  stronger  than  that,  for  he  liked 
to  assume  that  even  a  paper  such  as  /  Say  was 
sincere  and  honest  at  heart  —  to  make  the  kind  of 
suggestion  which  he  knew  and  they  all  knew  had 
been  made  in  that  paper,  about  Mr.  Egerton  —  a 
quiet,  God-fearing,  honest  citizen  —  but  they  all 
knew  him  as  well  as  he  did,  so  he  would  say  no 
more  about  that  —  subject  then  to  what  he  had 
said  first  and  assuming  what  he  had  just  said  — 
and  bearing  in  mind  the  proverbial  —  he  thought 
he  might  say  proverbial  (Dickens,  after  all,  was 
almost  a  proverb)  uncertainties  and  surprises  of 
his  own  profession,  he  thought  they  would  not  be 
wildly  optimistic  or  unduly  despondent  —  and  for 
himself  he  wanted  to  be  neither  —  if  they  esti- 
mated the  costs  of  the  action  at  a  thousand  pounds, 
but  of  course  — 

Waking  up  at  the  word  "  pounds  " —  the  kind 
of  word  for  which  they  had  been  subconsciously 
waiting  —  the  Committee  began  the  process  of  un- 
ravelling which  was  always  necessary  after  one  of 
Mr.  Dimple's  discourses.  And  their  conclusion 
was  that  it  was  up  to  The  Chase  to  subscribe  as 
much  of  the  money  as  possible,  as  much  at  any 
rate  as  would  enable  John  Egerton  to  issue  a  writ 
without  the  risk  of  financial  ruin. 

Henry  Stimpson  was  naturally  deputed  to  col- 
lect the  money.  Stimson  was  an  indefatigable 
man,  a  laborious  Civil  Servant  who  worked  from 

[238] 


The  House  by  the  River 

10  till  7.30  every  day  (and  took  his  lunch  at  the 
office),  yet  was  not  only  ready  but  pleased  to 
spend  his  evenings  and  his  week-ends,  canvassing 
for  subscriptions,  writing  whips  for  meetings,  or 
working  out  elaborate  calculations  of  the  amount 
due  to  Mrs.  Ambrose  in  money  and  kind  on  her 
resigning  from  the  communal  kitchen  after  pay- 
ing the  full  subscription  and  depositing  a  ham  in 
the  Committee's  charge  which  had  been  cooked 
by  mistake  and  sent  to  Mrs.  Vincent.  He  gen- 
uinely enjoyed  this  kind  of  task,  and  he  did  it 
very,  very  well. 

Henry  Stimpson  duly  waited  on  the  Byrnes  and 
explained  the  position.  Stephen  Byrne  had  read 
the  articles  in  /  Say,  and  Margery  had  read 
them.  And  a  gloom  had  fallen  upon  Stephen, 
for  which  Margery  was  unable  wholly  to  account 
as  a  symptom  of  solicitude  for  his  friend's  troubles 
—  especially  as  they  never  seemed  to  see  each 
other  nowadays.  To  her  knowledge  they  had  not 
met  at  all  since  the  summer  holidays. 

Nor  had  they.  They  avoided  each  other. 
This  resurrection  of  the  Emily  affair,  these  articles 
and  the  new  publicity,  and  now  on  top  of  that  the 
prospect  of  a  libel  action,  was  to  Stephen  like  a 
slap  in  the  face.  He  had  almost  forgotten  his 
old  anxieties  in  the  absorption  of  work  and  the 
soothing  atmosphere  of  his  new  resolutions.  But 
he  would  not  go  to  John;  he  had  been  lucky  be- 

[239] 


The  House  by  the  River 

fore;  he  might  be  lucky  again;  he  would  wait. 
Old  John  might  be  trusted  to  do  nothing  pre- 
cipitate. 

So  he  promised  to  subscribe  to  the  fund  for  the 
defence  of  John  Egerton's  good  name,  and  Stimp- 
son  went  away.  The  money  was  to  be  collected 
by  that  day  week,  and  on  the  following  Thursday 
there  would  be  a  general  meeting  to  consider  a 
plan  of  campaign.  Stimpson's  eyes  as  he  spoke 
of  "  a  general  meeting  "  were  full  of  quiet  joy. 

And  Stephen  went  on  with  his  work  —  very 
slowly  now,  but  he  went  on.  The  poem  was 
nearly  finished;  he  had  only  to  polish  it  a  little. 
But  he  sat  now  for  long  minutes  glowering  and 
frowning  over  his  paper,  staring  out  of  the  win- 
dow, staring  at  nothing.  Margery,  watching 
him,  wondered  yet  more  what  work  he  was  at, 
and  what  was  the  secret  of  this  gloom.  She  be- 
gan to  think  that  the  two  things  might  be  con- 
nected; he  might  be  attempting  some  impossible 
task;  he  might  be  overworked  and  stale.  This 
had  happened  before.  But  in  his  worst  hours  of 
artistic  depression  he  had  never  looked  so  black 
as  sometimes  she  saw  him  now.  And  she  noticed 
that  he  tried  to  conceal  this  mood  from  her;  he 
would  manufacture  a  smile  if  he  caught  her 
watching  him.  And  that,  too,  was  unusual. 

Then  one  evening  when  she  went  to  her  table 
[240] 


The  House  by  the  River 

for  some  small  thing  she  saw  there  the  unmis- 
takable manuscript  of  this  new  work  lying  in  an 
irregular  heap  on  the  blotter.  Her  eyes  were 
caught  by  the  title  — "  The  Death  in  the  Wood  " 
—  written  in  large  capitals  at  the  head;  and  al- 
most without  thinking  she  read  the  first  line. 
And  she  read  the  few  following  lines.  Then, 
urged  on  by  an  uncontrollable  curiosity  and  excite- 
ment, she  read  on.  She  sat  down  at  the  table 
and  read,  threading  a  slow  way  through  a  maze  of 
alterations  and  erasions,  and  jumbles  of  words 
enclosed  in  circles  on  the  margin  or  at  the  bottom 
or  at  the  top  and  wafted  with  arrows  and  squiggly 
lines  into  their  intended  positions.  But  she  un- 
derstood the  strange  language  of  creative  manu- 
script, and  she  read  through  the  whole  of  the 
first  section  —  Gelert  riding  through  the  forest, 
the  battle  in  the  forest,  and  the  death  of  the 
maiden.  And  as  she  read  she  was  deeply  moved. 
She  forgot  the  problem  of  Stephen's  gloom  in  her 
admiration  and  affectionate  pride. 

At  the  end  of  it  Gelert  stood  sorrowing  over 
the  body  and  made  a  speech  of  intense  dignity 
and  poetic  feeling.  And  at  that  point  she  heard 
the  voice  of  Stephen  at  the  front  door,  and  started 
away,  remembering  suddenly  that  this  reading  was 
a  breach  of  confidence.  But  why  —  why  was  she 
not  allowed  to  see  it? 


The  House  by  the  River 

Yet  that,  after  all,  was  a  small  thing;  and  she 
went  to  bed  very  happy,  dreaming  such  golden 
dreams  of  the  success  of  the  poem  as  she  might 
have  dreamed  if  she  had  written  it  herself. 


[242] 


XV 

THE  Chase  was  true  to  its  highest  tradi- 
tions.    Before  the  week  was  over  it  was 
known  that  the  sum  determined  on  by  the 
Egerton  Defence  Fund  Committee  had  been  al- 
ready promised,  and  more. 

Stephen  Byrne,  with  a  heavy  heart,  went  to  the 
"  general  meeting "  on  Tuesday  evening.  To 
have  stayed  away  would  have  looked  odd;  also 
he  was  anxious  to  know  the  worst.  He  walked 
there  as  most  men  go  to  a  battle,  full  of  secret 
foreboding,  yet  dubiously  glad  of  the  near  neces- 
sity for  action.  If,  indeed,  there  was  to  be  a 
libel  action,  backed  by  all  the  meddlesome  re- 
sources of  The  Chase,  things  would  have  to  come 
to  a  head.  This  was  a  development  which  had 
never  been  provided  for  in  his  calculations  and 
plans.  It  would  have  been  easier,  somehow,  if 
John  had  been  arrested,  charged  by  the  Crown 
with  murder.  He  would  have  known  then  what 
to  do  —  or  he  thought  he  would.  He  wished 
now  that  he  had  been  to  see  John,  found  out  what 
he  was  thinking.  But  he  was  nervous  of  John 
now,  or  rather  he  was  nervous  of  himself.  He 
could  not  trust  himself  not  to  do  something  silly 
if  he  met  John  in  private  again;  the  only  thing 

[243] 


The  House  by  the  River 

to  do  was  to  try  to  forget  him,  laugh  at  him  if 
possible.  And  that  was  the  devil  of  this  libel 
business.  He  would  have  to  be  there  himself,  he 
would  have  to  give  evidence  again,  and  sit  there 
probably  while  poor  old  John  was  stammering  and 
mumbling  in  the  box.  Yet  he  had  done  it  before 
—  why  not  again  ?  Somehow  he  felt  that  he 
could  not  do  it  again.  It  all  seemed  different 
now. 

And  that  poem!  Why  the  hell  had  he  writ- 
ten it?  Why  had  he  sent  it  to  The  Argus.  He 
had  had  it  typed  on  Thursday,  and  sent  it  off  by 
special  messenger  on  Friday,  just  in  time  for  the 
October  number.  The  Argus  liked  long  poems. 
What  a  fool  he  had  been!  Or  had  he?  He 
knew  very  well  himself  what  it  all  meant  —  but 
how  could  any  one  else  connect  it  with  life  —  with 
Emily  Gaunt?  No,  that  was  all  right.  And  it 
was  damned  good  stuff!  He  was  glad  he  had 
sent  it.  It  would  go  down  well.  And  another 
day  would  have  meant  missing  the  October  num- 
ber. 

Yes,  it  was  damned  good  stuff!  He  stood  at 
the  Whittakers'  door,  turning  over  in  his  head 
some  favourite  lines  from  Gelert's  speech  in  the 
forest.  Damned  good!  As  he  thought  how  ex- 
cellent it  was,  there  was  a  curious  sensation  of 
tingling  and  contraction  in  the  flesh  of  his  body 
and  the  back  of  his  legs. 
[244] 


The  House  by  the  River 

When  he  came  out,  an  hour  later,  he  was  a 
happier  man.  He  was  almost  happy.  For  it 
had  been  announced  at  the  meeting,  with  all  the 
solemnity  of  shocked  amazement,  that  Mr.  Eg- 
erton  had  refused  to  avail  himself  of  the  generous 
undertakings  of  The  Chase  and  neighbourhood. 
The  money  promised  would  enable  him  to  sue 
with  an  easy  mind.  But  he  would  not  sue. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done,  then,  but  put  and 
carry  votes  of  thanks  to  the  unofficial  Committee 
for  their  labour  and  enterprise,  to  Whittaker  for 
the  use  of  his  house,  to  Henry  Stimpson  for  his 
wasted  efforts.  The  last  of  these  votes  was  felt 
by  most  to  be  effort  equally  wasted,  since  they 
knew  well  that  Henry  Stimpson  had  in  fact  thor- 
oughly enjoyed  collecting  promises  and  cash,  and 
had  now  the  further  unlooked-for  delight  of  hav- 
ing to  return  the  money  already  subscribed. 

This  done,  the  meeting  broke  up  with  a  sense 
that  they  had  been  thwarted,  or  at  any  rate  un- 
reasonably debarred  from  a  legitimate  exercise 
of  their  communal  instincts. 

But  apart  from  this  intelligible  disappointment 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  head-shaking,  and  plain, 
if  not  outspoken,  disapproval  of  Egerton's  con- 
duct. Stephen,  moving  among  the  crowd,  gath- 
ered easily  the  sense  of  The  Chase,  and  it  had 
veered  surprisingly  since  Whittaker's  announce- 
ment. For  John  Egerton  had  advanced,  it 

[245] 


The  House  by  the  River 

seemed,  the  astounding  reason  that  he  might  lose 
the  case.     To  the  simple  people  of  The  Chase 

—  as  indeed  to  the  simple  population  of  England 

—  there   was   only   one    test   to    a   libel   action. 
Either  you  won  or  you  lost.     The  complex  cross- 
possibilities  of  justification  and  privilege  and  fair 
comment  and  the  rest  of  it,  which  Mr.  Dimple 
was  heard  to  be  apologetically  explaining  in  a 
corner  to  a  deaf  lady,  were  lost  upon  them.     If 
you  failed  to  win  your  case,  what  the  other  man 
said  was  true,  and  if  you  were  not  confident  of 
winning,  your  conscience  could  not  be  absolutely 
clear.     The  meeting  rather  felt  that  John  Eger- 
ton  had  let  them  down,  but  they  were  certain 
that  he  had  let  himself  down.     And  it  was  clear 
that  even  his  staunchest  supporters,  men  like  Whit- 
taker  and  Tatham,  were   shaken  in  their  alle- 
giance. 

But  Stephen  Byrne  was  happy.  He  had 
trusted  to  luck  again,  and  luck,  or  rather  the 
quixotic  lunacy  of  John  Egerton,  had  saved  him 
again.  It  was  wonderful.  It  was  all  over  now. 
John  had  finally  made  his  bed,  and  he  must  lie  on 
it.  He  thought  little  of  what  this  must  mean  to 
John,  this  aggravation  of  the  local  suspicions. 
He  saw  only  one  thing,  that  yet  another  wall  had 
been  raised  between  himself  and  exposure,  that 
once  more  his  anxieties  might  be  thrust  into  the 
background.  That  he  might  settle  down  again 
[246] 


The  House  by  the  River 

with  a  comfortable  mind  to  literature  and  domes- 
tic calm.  He  had  forgotten  with  his  fears  his 
compunction  of  an  hour  ago;  he  had  forgotten 
even  to  feel  grateful  to  John;  and  if  he  thought  of 
him  with  pity,  it  was  a  contemptuous  pity.  He 
saw  John  now  as  a  kind  of  literary  figure  of  high 
but  laughable  virtue,  a  man  so  virtuous  as  to  be 
ridiculous,  a  mere  foil  to  the  heroic  dare-devils  of 
life  —  such  as  Gelert  and  Stephen  Byrne. 

So  he  came  to  his  own  house,  thinking  again 
of  those  excellent  lines  of  Gelert's  speech.  In 
the  hall  he  composed  in  his  mind  the  description 
of  the  meeting  which  he  would  give  to  Margery. 

But  Margery,  too,  was  thinking  of  Gelert.  She 
was  reading  the  manuscript  of  "  The  Death  in 
the  Wood."  She  had  watched  Stephen  go  out 
in  a  slow  gloom  to  the  meeting,  and  then  she  had 
hurried  to  the  table  and  taken  guiltily  the  bundle 
from  the  special  manuscript  drawer.  For 
Stephen,  with  the  sentimental  fondness  of  many 
writers  for  the  original  work  of  their  own  hands, 
preserved  his  manuscripts  long  after  they  had 
been  copied  in  type  and  printed  and  published. 
Twice  during  the  last  week  she  had  gone  to  that 
drawer,  but  each  time  she  had  been  interrupted. 
And  at  each  reading  her  curiosity  and  admiration 
had  grown. 

She  had  suspected  nothing  —  had  imagined  no 
sort  of  relation  between  Stephen's  life  and  Gelert's 

[247] 


The  House  by  the  River 

adventures.  There  was  no  reason  why  she 
should.  For  she  detested  —  as  she  had  been 
taught  by  Stephen  to  detest  —  the  conception  of 
art  as  a  vast  autobiography.  Stephen's  person- 
ality was  in  the  feeling  and  in  the  phrasing  of  his 
work;  and  that  was  enough  for  her;  the  substance 
was  a  small  matter. 

Even  the  incident  of  the  maiden  in  the  wood, 
her  death  and  her  concealment  in  the  lake,  had 
scarcely  stirred  the  memory  of  Emily.  For  the 
reverent  and  idyllic  scene  in  which  the  two 
knights  had  "  laid  "  the  body  of  the  maiden  among 
the  reeds  and  water  lilies  of  the  lake,  to  be  dis- 
covered by  her  kinsmen  peeping  through  the  tan- 
gled thickets  of  wild  rose,  was  as  remote  as  pos- 
sible from  the  sordid  ugliness  of  Emily's  disposal 
and  discovery  in  a  muddy  sack  near  Barnes. 

But  now  she  had  finished.  And  she  did  sus- 
pect. When  she  came  to  the  passage  describing 
Gelert's  remorse  for  the  betrayal  of  his  old  com- 
panion-at-arms,  his  gloomy  bearing  and  penitent 
vows,  she  thought  suddenly  of  Stephen's  late  ex- 
travagant gloom,  which  she  was  still  unable  to 
understand.  And  then  she  suspected.  Idly  the 
thought  came,  and  idly  she  put  it  away.  But  it 
returned,  and  she  hated  herself  because  of  it.  It 
grew  to  a  stark  suspicion,  and  she  sat  for  a  mo- 
ment in  an  icy  terror,  frozen  with  pain  by  her  im- 
aginations. Then  in  a  fever  of  anxiety  she  went 
[248] 


The  House  by  the  River 

back  to  the  beginning  of  the  manuscript,  and  hur- 
ried through  it  again,  noting  every  incident  of  the 
story  in  the  hideous  light  of  her  suspicions.  And 
as  she  turned  over  the  untidy  pages,  the  terror 
grew. 

In  the  light  of  this  dreadful  theory  so  many 
things  were  explained  —  little  odd  things  which 
had  puzzled  her  and  been  forgotten  —  Stephen's 
surprising  anxiety  when  Michael  was  born  (and 
Emily  disappeared),  and  that  evening  in  the  sum- 
mer, when  they  had  all  been  so  silent  and  awk- 
ward together,  and  the  drifting  apart  of  Stephen 
and  John,  and  John's  extraordinary  evidence,  and 
Stephen's  present  depression.  It  was  all  so  ter- 
ribly clear,  and  the  incidents  of  the  poem  so  ter- 
ribly fitted  in.  Margery  moaned  helplessly  to 
herself,  "  Oh,  Stephen!  "  When  he  came  in,  she 
was  almost  sure. 

It  was  curious  that  at  first  she  thought  nothing 
of  Gelert's  illicit  amours  in  the  castle,  the  stealing 
of  his  own  friend's  lady.  That  part  of  the  poem, 
of  course,  was  a  piece  of  romantic  imagination, 
with  which  she  had  no  personal  concern.  But 
while  she  waited  for  Stephen,  turning  over  the 
leaves  once  more,  the  thought  did  come  to  her, 
"  If  one  part  is  true  —  why  not  all?  "  But  this 
thought  she  firmly  thrust  out.  She  was  sure  of 
him  in  that  way,  at  any  rate.  She  flung  a  cushion 
over  the  manuscript  and  waited. 

[249] 


The  House  by  the  River 

He  came  in  slowly  as  he  had  gone  out,  but  she 
saw  at  once  that  his  gloom  was  somehow  relieved. 
And  as  he  told  her  in  studied  accents  of  distress 
the  story  of  the  meeting,  there  came  to  her  a  sick 
certainty  that  he  was  acting.  He  was  not  really 
sorry  that  John  had  thought  it  best  not  to  take 
any  action;  he  was  glad. 

When  he  had  finished,  she  said,  in  a  hard  voice 
which  startled  her,  "  What  do  you  make  of  it, 
Stephen?  Do  you  think  he  really  did  it?  " 

Stephen  looked  at  the  fire,  the  first  fire  of  late 
September,  and  he  said,  "God  knows,  Margery; 
God  knows.  He's  a  funny  fellow,  John."  He 
sighed  heavily  and  stared  into  the  fire. 

And  then  she  was  quite  sure. 

She  stood  up  from  the  sofa,  the  manuscript  in 
her  hand,  and  came  towards  him. 

"  Stephen,"  she  said,  "  I've  been  reading 
this  —  You  —  I  —  oh,  Stephen!  " 

The  last  word  came'  with  a  little  wail,  and  she 
burst  suddenly  into  tears,  hiding  her  face  against 
his  shoulder.  She  stood  there  sobbing,  and 
shaken  with  sobbing,  and  he  tried  to  soothe  her, 
stroking  her  hair  with  a  futile  caressing  move- 
ment, and  murmuring  her  name  ridiculously,  over 
and  over  again. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  go  on  acting,  to  pre- 
tend astonishment  or  incomprehension.  She  had 
blundered  somehow  on  the  secret,  and  perhaps 
[250] 


The  House  by  the  River 

it  was  better  so.  To  her  at  least  he  could  lie  no 
more. 

At  last  the  sobbing  ceased,  and  he  kissed  her 
gently,  and  she  turned  from  him  automatically  to 
tidy  her  hair  in  the  glass. 

Then  she  said,  still  breathless  and  incoherent, 
"  Stephen,  is  it  true  —  that  poor  Emily  —  and 
poor  John  —  Oh,  Stephen,  how  could  you?  " 

The  tears  were  coming  back,  so  he  put  his  arms 
about  her  again.  And  he  spoke  quickly,  saying 
anything,  anything  to  hold  her  attention  and  keep 
away  those  terrible  tears. 

"  Darling,  I  was  a  fool  ...  it  was  for  your 
sake  in  the  first  place  —  for  your  sake  we  kept  it 
dark,  I  mean  —  it  was  John's  idea  —  and  then  — 
I  don't  know  —  I  was  a  beast  —  But  don't 
worry.  Tomorrow  I'll  put  it  all  right.  .  .  . 
I'll  give  myself  up  —  I  — " 

But  at  these  words,  and  at  the  picture  they 
raised,  a  great  cry  burst  from  her,  "  Oh,  no, 
Stephen.  No!  no!  —  you  mustn't." 

And  she  seized  the  lapels  of  his  coat  and  shook 
him  fiercely  in  the  intensity  of  her  feeling,  the 
human,  passionate,  protective  feeling  of  a  wife 
for  her  own  man  —  careless  what  evil  he  may 
have  done  if  somehow  he  may  be  made  safe  for 
her. 

And  Stephen  was  startled.  He  had  not  ex- 
pected this.  He  said,  stupidly,  "  But  John  — 


The  House  by  the  River 

what  about  John?  —  don't  you  want  me  —  don't 
you—?" 

"  No,  Stephen,  no  —  at  least  — "  and  she 
stopped,  thinking  now  of  John,  trying  conscien- 
tiously to  realize  what  was  owed  to  him.  Then 
she  went  on,  in  a  broken  torrent  of  pleading,  "  No, 
Stephen,  it's  gone  on  so  long  now  —  a  little  more 
won't  matter  to  him  —  surely,  Stephen  —  and 
nobody  really  thinks  he  did  it  —  nobody,  Stephen. 
It's  only  people  like  Mrs.  Vincent,  Mrs.  Ambrose 
was  saying  so  only  yesterday  —  and  it  would 
mean  —  it  would  mean  —  what  would  it  mean, 
Stephen  —  Stephen,  tell  me?"  But  as  she  im- 
agined what  this  would  mean  to  Stephen  she  stood 
shuddering  before  him,  her  big  eyes  staring  pit- 
eously  at  him. 

"  It  would  mean  —  O  God,  Margery,  I  don't 
know — "  and  he  turned  away. 

So  for  a  long  time  she  pleaded  with  him,  in 
groping,  inarticulate  helf-sentences.  She  never 
reproached  him,  never  asked  him  how  he  had 
come  to  do  a  foul  murder.  She  did  not  want  to 
know  that,  she  did  not  want  to  think  of  what  it 
was  right  for  him  to  do  —  that  was  too  danger- 
ous. All  that  mattered  was  this  danger  —  a  dan- 
ger that  could  be  avoided  if  she  could  only  per- 
suade him.  And  Stephen  listened  in  a  kind  of 
stupor,  listened  miserably  to  the  old  excuses  and 
arguments,  and  half-truths  with  which  he  had  so 

[252] 


The  House  by  the  River 

often  in  secret  convinced  himself.  But  somehow, 
as  Margery  put  them  with  all  the  prejudice  of  her 
passionate  fears,  they  did  not  convince  him. 
They  stood  out  horribly  in  their  nakedness.  And 
though  he  was  touched  and  amazed  by  the  strength 
of  her  forgiveness  and  her  love  in  the  face  of  this 
knowledge,  he  wished  almost  that  she  had  not 
forgiven  him,  had  urged  him  with  curses  to  go 
out  and  do  his  duty.  No,  he  did  not  wish  that, 
really.  But  he  did  wish  she  would  leave  him 
alone  now,  leave  him  to  think.  He  must  think. 

His  eye  fell  on  the  manuscript  lying  on  the 
floor,  and  he  began  to  wonder  what  it  was  in  the 
poem  that  had  told  her,  and  how  much  it  had 
hold.  She  had  said  nothing  of  that.  He  inter- 
rupted her:  "How  —  how  did  you  guess?" 
He  jerked  his  head  at  the  paper. 

She  told  him.  And  as  she  went  again  through 
that  terrible  process  in  her  mind,  that  other 
thought  returned,  that  idle  notion  about  the 
wooing  in  the  castle,  which  she  had  flung  away 
from  her. 

She  said,  faltering  and  slow,  her  lips  trembling, 
"  Stephen  —  there's  nothing  else  in  it  ...  is 
there?  ...  I  ought  to  have  guessed?  — 
Stephen,  you  do  love  me  —  don't  you?"  She 
stepped  uncertainly  towards  him,  and  then  with  a 
loud  cry,  "  Darling,  I  do!  "  he  caught  her  to  him. 
And  she  knew  that  it  was  true. 

[253] 


XVI 

IN  the  morning  he  went  out  as  usual  to  feed 
the  sea-gulls  before  breakfast,  as  if  nothing 
had  happened  or  was  likely  to  happen.  He 
was  pleased  as  usual  to  see  from  the  window  that 
they  were  waiting  for  him,  patient  dots  of  grey 
and  white,  drifting  on  the  near  water.  The  sun 
broke  thinly  through  the  October  haze,  and  the 
birds  circled  in  a  chattering  crowd  against  the 
gold.  And  he  had  as  usual  the  sense  of  personal 
satisfaction  when  they  caught  in  the  air,  with  mar- 
vellous judgment  and  grace,  the  pieces  of  old 
bread  he  flung  out  over  the  water,  and  was  dis- 
appointed as  usual  when  they  missed  it,  and  the 
bread  fell  into  the  river,  though  even  then  it  was 
delightful  to  see  with  how  much  delicacy  they 
skimmed  over,  and  plucked  it  from  the  surface  as 
they  flew,  as  if  it  were  a  point  of  honour  not  to 
settle  or  pause  or  wet  their  red  feet,  tucked  back 
beneath  them. 

And  he  had  breakfast  as  usual  with  Margery 
and  chattering  Joan,  and  as  usual  afterwards 
went  out  with  Joan  to  feed  the  rabbits,  and  again 
enjoyed  the  mysterious  and  universal  pleasure  of 
giving  food  to  animals  and  watching  them  cat. 

[254] 


The  House  by  the  River 

He  noted  as  usual  the  peculiar  habits  and  foibles 
of  the  rabbit  Henry  and  the  rabbit  Maud,  and  the 
common  follies  of  all  of  them  —  how  they  all 
persisted,  as  usual,  in  crowding  impossibly  round 
the  same  cabbage  leaf,  jostling  and  thrusting  and 
eating  with  the  maximum  discomfort,  with  urgent 
anxiety  and  petulant  stamping  because  there  were 
too  many  of  them,  while  all  around  there  lay  large 
wet  cabbage  leaves,  inviting  and  neglected.  He 
listened  as  usual  to  little  Joan's  insane  inter- 
minable questions,  and  answered  them  as  usual 
as  intelligently  as  he  could.  And  he  puffed  as 
usual  at  the  perfect  pipe  of  after-breakfast,  and 
swept  as  usual  the  dead  leaves  from  the  path. 
But  all  these  things  he  did  with  the  exquisite  mel- 
ancholy enjoyment  of  a  schoolboy,  knowing  that 
he  does  them  for  the  last  time  on  the  last  day  of 
his  holidays  at  home. 

And  he  had  decided  nothing.  Margery,  too, 
moved  as  usual  through  the  busy  routine  of  after- 
breakfast,  "  ordering "  food  for  herself  and 
Stephen  and  the  children  and  the  servants,  and 
promising  Cook  to  get  some  lard  and  "  speaking 
to  "  Mary  about  the  drawing-room  carpet,  and 
arranging  for  the  dining-room  to  be  "  done  out " 
tomorrow,  and  conferring  with  Nurse  and  tele- 
phoning for  some  fish.  She  did  these  things  in 
a  kind  of  dream,  hating  them  more  than  usual, 
and  now  and  then  she  looked  out  of  the  window, 

[255] 


The  House  by  the  River 

and  wondered  what  Stephen  was  doing,  and  what 
he  was  thinking.  For  she  knew  that  he  had  not 
decided.  And  she  would  not  speak  to  him;  she 
had  said  her  say,  and  some  instinct  told  her  that 
silence  now  was  her  best  hope. 

So  all  day  they  went  about  in  this  distressful 
tranquillity,  pretending  that  this  day  was  as  yes- 
terday, and  as  the  day  before.  At  midday  the 
tide  was  down;  the  grey  sky  crept  up  from  the 
far  roofs  and  hid  the  sun.  There  was  the  damp 
promise  of  a  drizzle  in  the  air,  and  the  bleak  de- 
pression of  low  tide  lay  over  the  mud  and  the 
meagre  stream  and  the  deserted  boats.  They 
had  lunch  almost  in  silence,  and  after  lunch  a  thin 
rain  began.  Stephen  stared  out  at  it  silent  from 
the  window,  thinking  and  thinking  and  deciding 
nothing;  and  Margery  sat  silent  by  the  fire,  darn- 
ing. And  her  silence,  and  the  silent  riot  of  his 
thoughts,  and  the  silent  miserable  rain,  and  the 
empty  abandoned  river,  united  in  a  vast  con- 
spiracy of  menace  and  accusation  and  gloom. 
They  were  leagued  together  to  get  on  his  nerves 
and  drive  him  to  despair.  He  went  out  suddenly, 
and  down  to  the  dining-room,  and  there  he  drank 
some  whisky,  very  quickly,  and  very  strong. 

Then,  because  he  must  do  something  or  he 
would  go  mad,  he  dragged  the  dinghy  over  the 
mud  and  shingle  down  to  the  water,  and  he  rowed 
up  to  the  Island  to  pick  up  firewood  from  the 
[256] 


The  House  by  the  River 

mud-banks,  where  the  high  tides  took  it  and  left 
it  tangled  in  the  reeds  and  young  willow  stems. 

It  was  an  infinite  toil  to  get  this  wood,  but  all 
afternoon  he  worked  there,  crashing  fiercely 
through  the  tall  forest  of  withes  and  crowded 
reeds,  and  slithering  down  banks  into  deep  mud, 
and  groping  laboriously  in  the  slush  of  small  in- 
lets for  tiny  pieces  of  tarred  wood,  and  filling  his 
basket  with  great  beams  and  bits  of  bark,  and 
small  planks  and  box-wood,  and  painfully  carry- 
ing them  through  the  mud  and  the  wet  reeds  down 
to  the  boat.  He  worked  hard,  with  a  savage  de- 
termination to  tire  himself,  to  occupy  his  mind, 
cursing  with  a  kind  of  furious  satisfaction  when 
the  stems  sprang  back  and  whipped  him  in  the 
face.  The  sweat  came  out  upon  him,  and  his 
hands  were  scratched,  and  the  mud  was  thick  upon 
his  clothes.  But  all  the  time  he  thought.  He 
could  not  stop  thinking.. 

And  somehow  the  fierce  energy  of  the  work 
communicated  itself  to  his  thoughts.  As  he 
struck  down  the  brittle  reeds  he  fancied  himself 
striking  at  his  enemies,  manfully  meeting  his 
Fate.  All  his  life  he  had  done  things  thoroughly, 
as  he  was  doing  this  foolish  wood-gathering. 
He  had  faced  things,  he  had  not  been  afraid. 
He  would  not  be  afraid  now.  He  would  give  him- 
self up.  No,  no!  He  couldn't  do  that.  Not 
fair  to  Margery  —  a  long  wait,  prison,  trial,  the 

[257] 


The  House  by  the  River 

dock  —  hanging !  Aah !  He  made  a  shudder- 
ing cry  at  that  thought,  and  he  lashed  out  with 
the  stick  in  his  hand,  beating  at  the  withes  in  a 
fury  of  fear.  No,  no !  by  God,  no !  —  hanging 
—  the  last  morning!  Not  that. 

But  still,  he  must  be  brave.  No  more  cow- 
ardice. That  was  the  worst  of  all  he  had  done 
this  summer  —  the  cowardice.  No  more  sitting 
tight  at  John's  expense.  Whatever  Margery 
said.  It  was  sweet  of  her,  but  later  it  would  be 
different.  When  all  this  was  forgotten,  she  would 
remember  .  .  .  she  would  be  living  with  him, 
day  after  day,  knowing  every  night  there  was  a 
murderer  in  her  bed,  a  liar,  a  coward,  a  treach- 
erous coward.  .  .  .  Very  soon  she  would  hate 
him.  And  he  would  hate  her,  because  she  knew. 
He  would  be  always  ashamed  before  her,  all  day, 
always.  .  .  .  Just  now  they  did  not  mind,  be- 
cause they  were  afraid.  But  they  would  mind. 
.  .  .  She  had  not  even  minded  about  Muriel, 
when  he  told  her  —  and  he  had  told  her  every- 
thing. But  she  would  mind  that,  too,  in  the  end. 
.  .  .  She  would  always  be  imagining  Muriels. 

No,  there  must  be  no  more  cowardice.  It  must 
finish  now,  one  way  or  another.  But  there  was 
only  one  way. 

The  rain  had  stopped  now,  and  a  warm  wind 
blew  freshly  from  the  south-west.  The  two 
swans  of  the  Island  washed  themselves  in  the 

[258] 


The  House  by  the  River 

ruffled  shallows,  wings  flapping  and  necks  busily 
twisting.  In  the  west  was  a  stormy  and  marvel- 
lous sky,  still  dark  pillows  of  heavy  clouds,  black 
and  grey,  and  an  angry  purple,  with  small  white 
tufts  floating  irresponsibly  across  them,  and  here 
and  there  a  startling  lake  of  the  palest  blue ;  while 
low  down,  beneath  them,  as  if  rebellious  at  the 
long  grey  day,  and  determined  somehow  to  make 
a  show  at  his  own  setting,  the  sun  revealed  him- 
self as  an  orange  dome  on  the  roof  of  the  Quick 
Boat  Company,  and  poised  grotesquely  between 
the  tall  black  chimneys,  flung  out  behind  the  Rich- 
mond Hills  a  narrow  ribbon  of  defiant  light,  and 
away  towards  Hammersmith  all  the  windows  in  a 
big  house  lit  up  suddenly  with  orange  and  gold,  as 
if  the  house  were  burning  furiously  within.  The 
boat  was  heavy  now  with  wood,  and  Stephen 
pushed  her  off,  to  row  home  with  his  face  to  the 
sunset  and  the  storm.  Now  the  light  was  caught 
in  the  mud-slopes  by  the  Island,  and  they,  too, 
were  beautiful.  And  as  he  rowed  he  said  a  self- 
conscious  farewell  to  the  sun  and  the  warm  wind 
and  the  river  which  he  loved.  No  one  loved  this 
river  as  he  did.  They  lived  smugly  in  their  draw- 
ing-rooms like  Kensington  people,  and  they  looked 
out  at  the  river  when  the  sun  shone  at  high  tide, 
and  in  the  summer  crept  out  timidly  for  an  hour 
in  hired  boats  like  trippers.  But  when  it  was  win- 
ter and  the  wind  blew,  they  drew  their  curtains 

[259] 


The  House  by  the  River 

and  shivered  over  their  fires  and  shut  out  the  river, 
so  that  they  hardly  knew  it  was  there  from  the 
autumn  to  the  spring.  They  did  not  deserve  to 
live  by  the  river;  they  did  not  understand  it. 
They  did  not  see  that  it  was  lovable  always,  and 
most  lovable  perhaps  when  the  tide  rushed  in 
against  the  wild  west  wind,  and  the  rain  and  the 
spindrift  lashed  your  face  as  you  tossed  in  a  small 
boat  over  the  lively  waves.  They  thought  it  was 
the  noisy  storm  rushing  down  a  muddy  river ;  they 
thought  the  wind  made  a  melancholy  howl  about 
the  windows.  They  did  not  know  that  the  river 
in  the  wind  was  a  place  of  poetry  and  excitement, 
such  as  you  might  not  find  in  the  rest  of  Lon- 
don, that  the  noisy  wind  and  the  muddy  water 
and  the  wet  mud  at  low  tide  were  things  of  beauty 
and  healthy  life  if  you  went  out  and  made  friends 
with  them.  These  people  never  saw  the  sunset 
in  winter,  and  the  curious  majesty  of  factories 
against  the  glow;  they  never  saw  the  lights  upon 
the  mud;  they  did  not  love  the  barges  and  the 
tugs,  sliding  up  with  a  squat  importance  out  of  the 
fog,  or  swishing  lazily  down  in  the  early  morning, 
with  the  hoar-frost  thick  upon  their  decks.  They 
did  not  know  what  the  river  was  like  in  the  dark- 
ness or  the  winter  dusk;  you  could  not  know  that 
till  you  had  been  on  the  river  many  times  at  those 
hours  and  found  out  the  strange  lights  and  the 
[260] 


The  House  by  the  River 

strange  whispers,  and  the  friendly  loneliness  of 
the  river  in  the  dark. 

And  when  he  had  gone,  no  one  here  would  do 
that;  no  one  would  row  out  in  the  frosty  noons  or 
the  velvet  dusks,  no  one  would  feed  the  sea-gulls 
in  the  morning,  or  steal  out  in  the  evening  to 
watch  the  dab-chicks  diving  round  the  Island. 
No  one  would  be  left  who  properly  loved  the 
river.  They  would  sit  in  their  drawing-rooms 
and  shudder  at  the  wind,  and  say:  "  That  poor 
fellow  Byrne  —  he  was  mad  about  the  river  — 
he  was  always  pottering  about  on  the  river  in  a 
boat  —  and  then,  you  know,  he  drowned  himself 
in  the  river  •*—  just  outside  here."  Yes,  he  would 
do  that.  There  would  be  something  "  dramatic  " 
about  that.  Just  outside  here  —  in  the  dark. 
He  had  decided  now.  Not  poison,  for  he  knew 
nothing  about  that;  not  shooting  —  for  he  had 
no  revolver.  But  the  river. 

When  he  had  decided  his  heart  was  lighter. 
Very  carefully  he  moored  the  boat,  and  took  out 
the  wood  and  carried  it  in  a  basket  to  the  kitchen 
to  be  dried.  Then  he  took  a  last  look  at  the 
river  and  the  sun  and  went  in  to  tea.  All  that 
evening  he  was  very  cheerful  with  Margery  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  at  dinner  and  afterwards. 
At  dinner  he  talked  hard  and  laughed  very  often. 
And  Margery  was  easier  in  her  mind,  though 

[261] 


The  House  by  the  River 

sometimes  she  was  puzzled  by  his  laughter.  But 
she  thought  that  she  had  persuaded  him,  or  that 
he  had  persuaded  himself,  that  she  was  right,  and 
this  gaiety  was  the  reaction  from  the  long  uncer- 
tainty of  mind.  And  indeed  it  was.  She  saw 
also  that  he  drank  a  good  deal;  but  because  he 
was  cheerful  at  last,  and  would  be  more  cheerful 
when  he  had  drunk  more,  she  did  not  mind. 

By  the  late  post  there  came  a  copy  of  The 
Argus.  They  looked  at  the  parcel,  but  they  did 
not  open  it,  and  they  did  not  look  at  each  other. 

When  she  went  up  to  bed  he  kissed  her  fondly, 
but  not  too  fondly,  lest  she  should  suspect  —  and 
said  that  he  would  sit  and  read  for  a  little  by 
the  fire.  Then  he  opened  The  Argus  and  read 
through  "  The  Death  in  the -Wood  "  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  It  pleased  him  now  -r-  it  pleased 
him  very  much;  for  it  was  more  than  a  week  since 
he  had  seen  it,  and  some  of  its  original  freshness 
had  returned.  It  was  good.  But  it  seemed  to 
him,  as  he  read  it  now,  to  be  a  very  damning  con- 
fession of  weakness  and  sin,  and  while  he  glowed 
with  the  pride  of  artistic  achievement,  he  was 
chilled  with  the  shame  of  his  human  record.  It 
was  so  clear  and  naked  in  this  poem  that  he  had 
written;  it  must  be  obvious  to  any  who  read  it 
what  kind  of  a  man  he  was  and  what  things  he 
had  done.  Margery  had  known,  and  surely  the 
[262] 


The  House  by  the  River 

whole  world  would  know.  But  no  matter  —  he 
would  be  too  quick  for  them.  He  would  be  dead 
before  they  discovered. 

And  anyhow  he  was  going  to  tell  the  world. 
Of  course,  he  had  forgotten  that.  He  was  go- 
ing to  tell  the  truth  about  John  before  he  went. 
Of  course.  He  must  do  that  now. 

He  took  some  writing-paper  and  went  down 
into  the  dining-room.  He  felt  a  little  cold  —  not 
so  cheerful.  A  little  whisky  would  buck  him  up. 
A  little  whisky,  while  he  wrote  this  letter. 

He  drank  half  a  tumbler,  and  sat  down.  How 
would  it  go,  this  letter?  To  the  police,  of 
course.  He  wrote : 

'  This  is  to  certify  that  I,  Stephen  Byrne, 
strangled  Emily  Gaunt  on  the  I5th  of  May;  John 
Egerton  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  am  going 
to  drown  myself." 

He  signed  it  and  read  it  over.  After 
"  strangled  "  he  squeezed  in  "  by  accident."  It 
looked  untidy,  and  he  wrote  it  all  out  again. 
That  would  do.  He  drank  some  more  whisky 
and  sat  staring  at  the  paper. 

Why  should  he  do  that?  Wasn't  he  going  to 
do  enough,  as  it  was?  He  was  going  to  die;  that 
was  surely  punishment  enough.  Why  should  he 
leave  this  damned  silly  confession  behind?  Just 
for  the  sake  of  old  John.  Damn  John !  A  good 

[263] 


The  House  by  the  River 

fellow,  John.  A  damned  fool,  John.  Was  it 
fair  to  Margery?  That  was  the  thing.  Was  it 
fair?  One  more  drink. 

He  filled  up  the  fourth  glass  and  sat  pondering 
stupidly  the  supreme  selfishness.  Outside  the 
wind  had  risen,  and  Margery  shivered  upstairs 
at  the  rattle  of  the  windows.  Eleven  o'clock  — 
why  was  Stephen  so  long?  What  was  that  noise  ? 
A  dull  report  —  like  a  distant  bomb.  She  sat 
up  in  bed,  listening.  Then  she  remembered. 
The  gas-stove  being  lit  in  the  dining-room.  Some- 
thing was  wrong  with  it.  But  why  had  it 
frightened  her?  And  why  was  it  being  lit? 

Because  it  was  cold  in  the  dining-room,  and  the 
wind  was  howling,  and  there  was  a  numb  sensa- 
tion in  his  hands.  A  funny  dead  feeling.  The 
whisky,  perhaps.  But  when  he  had  turned  on  the 
gas,  he  forgot  about  it,  and  stood  thinking,  match- 
box in  hand,  thinking  out  the  new  problem.  It 
was  difficult  to  think  clearly.  Then  it  exploded 
like  that,  when  he  put  the  match  to  it.  He  kicked 
it.  Damned  fool  of  a  thing.  Like  John.  It 
was  John  who  was  responsible  for  all  this  worry 
and  fuss.  John  could  go  to  the  devil.  He  had 
fooled  John  before,  and  he  would  fool  him  again. 
Ha,  ha  I  That  was  a  cunning  idea.  Then  they 
would  say  in  the  papers,  "  A  great  genius  —  a 
noble  character  —  ha,  ha  !  — '  The  Death  in  the 
Wood  ' —  last  work,  imaginative  writing  " —  ha, 
[264] 


The  House  by  the  River 

ha !  imaginative!  —  and  it  was  all  true.  But 
nobody  would  know  —  nobody  would  say  so  — 
because  he  would  be  dead.  John  wouldn't  say  so, 
and  Margery  wouldn't  say  so  —  because  he  would 
be  dead.  Mustn't  say  anything  about  the  dead. 
Oh  no !  Must  burn  this  silly  confession.  When 
he  had  had  another  drink.  It  was  so  cold.  No 
more  whisky  —  hell!  "There's  hoosh  in  the 
bottle  still."  But  there  wasn't.  Who  wrote 
that?  Damned  Canadian  fellow.  The  Yukon. 
Port.  There  was  some  port  somewhere.  Port 
was  warming. 

He  fumbled  in  the  oak  dresser  for  the  decan- 
ter, knocking  over  a  number  of  glasses.  Damned 
little  port  left  —  somebody  been  at  it.  Best  drink 
in  the  world  —  port.  Good,  rich,  generous  stuff. 
Ah !  That  was  good.  One  more  glass.  Then 
he  would  go  out.  Half-past  eleven.  Margery 
would  be  wandering  down  in  a  minute  —  would 
think  he  was  drunk.  He  wasn't  drunk  —  head 
perfectly  clear.  Saw  the  whole  thing  now. 
Dramatic  end  —  drowned  in  sight  of  home  — 
national  loss  — •  moonlight.  No,  there  was  no 
moon.  Hell  of  a  wind,  though.  A  sou'wester 
—  he,  he!  Poor  Margery,  poor  Muriel,  poor 
John !  They  would  miss  him  —  when  he  had 
gone.  They  would  be  sorry  then.  Gt)od  fel- 
low, John.  Good  fellows  —  all  of  them.  But 
they  didn't  appreciate  him  —  nobody  did.  Yes, 

[265] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Muriel  did.  A  dear  girl,  Muriel.  But  no  mind. 
He  would  like  to  say  good-bye  to  Muriel.  And 
Margery.  But  that  wouldn't  do.  Dear  things, 
both  of  them.  Drink  their  healths.  The  last 
glass.  No  more  port.  No  more  whisky.  No 
cheese,  no  butter,  no  jam.  Like  the  war.  Ha, 
ha! 

First-rate  port.  He  was  warm  now,  and 
sleepy.  God,  what  a  wind.  Mustn't  go  to  sleep 
here.  Sleep  in  the  river — the  dear  old  river. 
Drowning  was  pleasant,  they  said  —  not  like 
hanging.  Would  rather  stay  here,  though  —  in 
the  warm.  Only  there  was  no  more  port.  And 
he  had  promised  some  one  —  must  keep  promises. 
Come  on,  then.  No  shirking.  Head  perfectly 
clear.  What  was  it  he  was  going  to  do  first? 
Something  he  had  to  do.  God  knows.  Head 
perfectly  clear.  But  sleepy.  Terribly  sleepy. 

He  walked  over  with  an  intense  effort  of  stead- 
iness to  the  door  into  the  garden,  as  if  there  were 
many  watching,  and  opened  the  door.  The  wind 
beat  suddenly  in  his  face  and  rushed  past  tri- 
umphant into  the  house.  The  bay-tree  tossed 
and  shook  itself  in  the  next  garden.  The  dead 
leaves  rushed  rustling  up  and  down  the  stone 
path,  and  leapt  in  coveys  up  the  wall,  and 
fled  for  refuge  up  the  steps  and  into  the  house 
out  of  the  furious  wind.  The  shock  of  the  cool 
air  and  the  violence  of  the  wind  sobered  him  a 
[266] 


The  House  by  the  River 

little,  and  he  paused  irresolute  at  the  top  of  the 
steps.  Then,  with  the  obstinate  fidelity  of  a 
drunken  man  to  a  purpose  once  formed,  he 
walked  unsteadily  down  the  steps;  he  looked  up  at 
the  lighted  window  of  Margery's  room,  and  waved 
his  arm  vaguely,  and  shouted  a  thick  "  Good-bye," 
but  his  throat  was  husky,  and  it  was  difficult  to 
shout.  Then  he  passed  on  down  the  path,  talk- 
ing to  himself.  There  was  a  boathook  against 
the  wall  and  he  picked  it  up,  and  went  down 
the  steps  into  the  small  dinghy.  He  fumbled  for 
a  long  time  with  the  rope  that  tied  her,  and  pushed 
off  at  last  with  the  boathook.  He  pushed  out  into 
the  wind,  stupidly  paddling  with  the  boathook, 
because  he  had  forgotten  the  oars.  But  it  was 
no  matter.  He  would  not  go  back.  He  must 
go  on.  Out  into  the  middle. 

Margery,  lying  wondering  in  bed,  heard  the 
faint  sound  of  a  cry  above  the  wind,  and  jumped 
out  of  bed.  From  the  window  she  saw  nothing 
but  the  hurrying  clouds  and  the  faint,  wild  gleam 
of  the  excited  river.  She  crept  down  shivering 
to  the  drawing-room,  where  the  lights  still  burned. 
A  great  draught  of  cold  air  swept  up  to  the 
stairs,  and  she  ran  down  fearfully  to  the  dining- 
room.  She  saw  the  glasses  in  the  brilliant 
light,  the  empty  glasses  and  the  empty  bottle 
and  the  empty  decanter,  and  under  one  of  the 
glasses  a  sheet  of  paper  flapping  in  the  wind.  She 

[267] 


The  House  by  the  River 

picked  in  up,  stained  with  a  wet  half-circle  of  wine, 
and  then  with  a  low  wail  she  ran  out  through  the 
open  door  into  the  roaring  gloom,  her  thin  cover- 
ing whipping  about  her. 

It  was  dark  in  the  garden,  but  over  the  river 
there  was  the  pale  radiance  of  water  in  a  wind. 
And  there  were  some  stars  now,  racing  after  the 
clouds.  And  away  towards  the  Island  she  saw 
the  boat,  not  far  off,  a  small  black  smudge  against 
the  dirty  gleam  of  the  tumbled  river.  It  was 
moving  very  slowly,  for  the  wind  was  fighting  for 
it  with  the  stubborn  tide.  And  in  the  boat  she 
saw  a  standing  figure,  swaying  as  the  boat  rocked, 
leaning  with  one  hand  on  some  kind  of  a  staff,  and 
waving  the  other  with  sweeping  gestures  in  the 
air,  as  a  man  making  a  speech.  As  she  looked  a 
squall  came  over  the  water,  a  sudden  gust  of  fu- 
rious violence,  as  if  the  wind  were  seized  with  a 
passion  of  uncontrollable  temper.  The  figure  in 
the  boat  swayed  backwards  and  recovered  itself, 
and  lurched  forward  and  fell;  it  fell  into  the 
water  with  a  great  splash,  which  Margery  saw, 
but  never  heard.  Then  she  gave  a  wild,  high  cry. 
The  wind  caught  it  and  flung  it  away,  but  many 
heard  it.  And  none  who  heard  it  in  all  those 
houses  will  ever  forget  it.  She  ran  crying  up  the 
garden,  calling  on  the  name  of  John  Egerton. 
And  John  Egerton  heard. 

[268] 


XVII 

JOHN  EGERTON  came  home  very  weary 
that  evening;  and  all  the  way  home  things 
went  wrong  as  they  had  gone  wrong  on  a 
certain  evening  in  June  when  he  had  come  home 
tired  to  find  the  Byrnes'  maid  on  the  doorstep, 
and  told  the  first  lie  about  the  sack.  Tonight 
again  the  trains  went  wrong,  and  they  were  stuffy 
and  packed,  difficult  to  enter  and  difficult  to 
leave  and  abominable  to  be  in.  It  was  one  of  the 
exceptionally  hateful  journeys  which  men  remem- 
ber as  they  remember  battles.  It  was  of  a  piece 
with  that  night  in  June,  and  John  thought  of 
them  together  as  he  walked  home,  hot  and  jumpy 
with  irritation.  Nothing  had  gone  right  since 
that  night  —  nothing.  He  had  lost  his  love,  and 
his  good  name,  and  his  peace  of  mind  —  and  his 
best  friend.  He  had  had  faith  in  Stephen  then; 
he  had  admired  and  loved  —  had  almost  idolized 
him.  Tonight  he  felt  that  he  hated  Stephen. 
Not  a  word  from  him  —  not  one  word  of  en- 
couragement or  gratitude  in  all  this  filthy  busi- 
ness of  the  articles.  Not  that  he  wanted  Stephen 
to  do  anything  —  oh  no  !  He  had  made  his  vow 
and  he  would  stick  to  it.  But  it  did  hurt  that 

[269] 


The  House  by  the  River 

Stephen  should  take  this  sacrifice  so  much  as  a 
matter  of  course,  should  do  nothing  to  help  him 
in  this  new  storm  of  suspicion.  He  had  been 
a  good  friend  once  —  a  jolly,  companionable 
friend,  open-hearted  and  full  of  laughter  —  the 
best  friend  a  lonely  bachelor  could  have.  Well, 
it  was  done  with  now.  He  had  lost  that  as  he 
had  lost  everything  else.  And  it  had  all  begun 
with  that  lie.  Perhaps  it  was  a  judgment.  Per- 
haps there  was  never  a  virtuous  lie. 

He  had  bought  at  Charing  Cross  the  October 
number  of  The  Argus,  because  he  had  seen  on  the 
cover  the  name  of  Stephen  Byrne,  and  he  read 
everything  that  Stephen  wrote.  After  dinner  he 
sat  down  and  read  "  The  Death  in  the  Wood." 
And  at  first  he  read,  as  Margery  had  read, 
only  with  admiration,  though  it  was  now  a  jeal- 
ous, almost  reluctant  admiration.  He  thought, 
"  How  can  a  mean  swine  like  Stephen  create  such 
glorious  high-minded  stuff?"  It  was  unnatural, 
wrong. 

While  he  was  reading  the  bell  rang.  Mrs. 
Bantam  came  in.  "  It's  them  Gaunts,"  she 
whispered.  The  Gaunt  family  had  not  been  near 
him  for  months,  and  now  they  had  come  to  pluck 
the  certain  fruit  of  the  /  Say  articles.  They 
stood  in  a  defiant  cluster  in  the  tiny  hall.  John, 
for  once,  fortified  and  embittered  by  the  exas- 
perations of  the  Underground,  allowed  himself 
[270] 


The  House  by  the  River 

to  be  violently  angry.  He  took  a  stick  from  the 
rack  and  shouted  at  them,  "  Get  out  of  my  house 
—  or  I'll  —  I'll  throw  you  out !  "  A  little  to  his 
surprise  they  did  go  out,  and  he  went  back  to 
"  The  Death  in  the  Wood,"  pleasantly  relieved 
by  his  self-assertion  and  anger. 

He  read  on  through  the  burial  in  the  lake,  and 
the  finding  of  the  maiden,  and  the  battle  at  the 
lake  where  the  faithful  Tristram  fought  and  was 
wounded.  Then  he  came  to  the  wooing  in  the 
castle,  the  false  wooing  by  Gelert  of  Tristram's 
lady,  the  lovely  Isobel.  And  here  the  soft  heart 
of  John  melted  within  him;  for  the  picture  of 
Isobel  which  Stephen  had  drawn  was  so  like 
the  picture  of  Muriel  that  was  ever  in  his  own 
mind,  a  fair  and  gracious  and  relenting  lady;  and 
the  hot  words  of  Gelert  were  such  words  as  he 
would  have  uttered  and  had  dreamed  himself 
uttering  to  Muriel  Tarrant.  But  Muriel  Tar- 
rant  had  done  with  him,  it  seemed;  she  would 
hardly  nod  at  him  across  the  road;  he  had  not 
spoken  to  her  alone  since  that  miserable  dance. 
And  this  poetry  of  Stephen  Byrne's  was  the  per- 
fect expression  of  his  faithful  devotion,  and  made 
him  almost  weep  with  sentimental  regret. 

He  read  these  passages  several  times.  Then 
he  went  on  to  the  poisoning  by  Gelert  of  Isobel's 
mind  agains  her  old  lover,  and  his  conquest  of 
her,  and  his  cruel  desertion  of  her.  And  some- 

[271] 


The  House  by  the  River 

where  among  those  terrible  lines  the  thought  came 
to  him  as  it  had  come  to  Margery,  with  a  red-hot 
excruciating  stab  —  that  this  story  was  a  true 
story.  And  he  looked  back  then,  as  Margery 
had  looked,  at  the  first  pages  of  the  poem  and  at 
the  memory  of  those  dreadful  months  in  the  new 
light  of  his  suspicions.  He  remembered  the 
dance,  and  Muriel's  face  at  the  dance;  how  kind 
at  the  beginning  of  it,  how  cold  and  cruel  at  the 
end  —  when  she  had  danced  many  times  with 
Stephen.  He  remembered  how  he  had  met  her 
in  September  in  the  street;  and  how  in  her  side, 
long  look  there  had  been  not  only  that  coldness, 
but  also  a  certain  shame.  Could  it  be  .  .  .? 

Once,  he  was  sure,  she  had  liked  him  a  little  — 
in  the  end  he  could  have  won  her;  she  would 
have  relieved  him  of  this  loneliness  —  this  lone- 
liness in  an  empty  house  with  the  hateful  whining 
at  the  windows;  but  something  devilish  and  un- 
known had  got  in  the  way.  .  .  .  And  if  it  was 
Stephen,  and  Stephen's  lies.  .  .  .  God!  He 
would  go  to  Muriel,  he  would  go  to  Stephen;  he 
would  have  it  out  of  them,  he  would  go  now  — 

And  as  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  work- 
ing himself  into  a  fever  of  rage,  that  terrible  cry 
came  out  of  the  night,  and  he  rushed  out  into  the 
garden.  Over  the  wall  he  scrambled  to  Mar- 
gery, and  heard  her  incoherent  appeals;  then  on 
to  Stephen's  steps  and  down  into  Stephen's  motor- 
[272] 


The  House  by  the  River 

boat.  "The  oars,"  he  shouted — "the  oars!" 
and  Margery  pushed  them,  trembling,  over  the 
wall.  He  rowed  out  wildly  towards  the  Island, 
missing  the  water  and  splashing  emptily  in  his 
haste.  He  turned  round  and  there  was  nothing 
to  be  seen,  no  other  boat,  no  bobbing  head, — 
nothing,  nothing  but  the  gleam  and  shadow  of  the 
tumbled  water.  He  rowed  round  laboriously  in 
a  wide  circle  for  many  minutes,  peering,  shouting, 
damp  with  spindrift  and  the  sweat  of  rowing, 
though  his  hands  were  frozen  and  numb  upon  the 
oars.  The  boat  was  a  hideous  weight  for  rowing 
in  the  fierce  wind,  and  when  he  could  see  noth- 
ing anywhere,  he  started  the  engine  —  with  mer- 
ciful ease  —  and  steered  up  past  the  Island,  since 
anything  that  was  in  the  water  must  move  up  with 
the  tide  at  last.  The  spray  shot  over  the  bows 
and  blinded  him.  The  boat  steered  drunkenly 
as  he  wiped  his  eyes  and  peered  out  at  the  water, 
and  shouted  weakly  at  the  wind. 

He  came  out  past  the  Island  into  the  open,  and 
there  he  saw  the  dinghy,  fifty  yards  ahead,  a 
dark  blot,  dancing  aimlessly  sideways  over  the 
short  waves.  Anyhow,  he  would  pick  up  the 
dinghy  —  it  might  be  useful. 

But  when  he  came  up  with  the  dinghy  he  saw 
that  there  was  something  in  it,  something  that 
was  like  the  carved  figures  that  may  be  seen  brood- 
ing over  tombs,  with  curved  back  and  head  droop- 

[273] 


The  House  by  the  River 

ing  over  clasped  knees,  a  figure  of  utter  dejection. 
But  now  and  then  it  moved  and  paddled  feebly 
in  the  water  with  one  hand. 

John  called,  with  an  incredulous  question  in 
his  voice,  "Stephen?  Stephen?  Is  that  you?" 

And  it  was  Stephen,  brooding  bitterly  over  the 
shame  of  his  last  cowardice,  and  exhausted  with 
the  long  struggle  he  had  made  for  life.  For 
the  cold  clutch  of  the  water  had  woken  up  the 
love  of  life,  and  he  had  swum  in  a  scrambling  ter- 
ror after  the  boat,  and  climbed  with  infinite  dif- 
ficulty back  into  the  oarless  boat.  He  was  sod- 
den and  cold,  and  sick  with  humiliation.  And 
John  Egerton  of  all  people  must  come  and  find 
him.  So  he  turned  his  head  and  said  with  a  great 
bitterness,  "  O  God!  It's  you,  is  it?  " 

When  John  saw  that  miserable  figure,  there  be- 
gan to  take  hold  of  him  that  old  and  fatal  soft- 
ness of  heart;  he  felt  very  pitiful,  and  he  said 
gently,  "  Get  in,  Stephen."  And  Stephen  crawled 
over  into  the  other  boat,  the  water  streaming 
from  him;  and  they  sat  together  on  the  wide  seat 
in  front  of  the  engine  as  they  had  sat  so  often 
before. 

Then  John  said,  "What  happened?  We 
thought  you  —  " 

Stephen  growled,  "So  I  did  —  but  —  but  I 
funked  it.  ...  I  was  drunk."  Then  he  burst 
[274] 


The  House  by  the  River 

out,  "  But,  damn  it,  it's  nothing  to  do  with  you. 
.  .  .     Turn  her  round  —  I'm  soaked." 

And  then,  at  the  sullen  bitterness  of  his  voice 
and  his  words,  John  Egerton  remembered  his 
rage,  he  remembered  the  black  grievance  and  sus- 
picion he  had  against  this  man.  And  though  the 
impulse  to  pity  and  forbearance  struggled  still 
within  him,  he  fought  it  down.  He  would  be  firm 
for  once.  The  boats  swung  sideways  in  the  wind, 
and  drifted,  rolling,  roind  the  bend. 

He  put  his  hand  behind  him  on  the  starting- 
handle  of  the  engine,  as  he  said: 

'  We're  not  going  back  yet,  Stephen.  I  want 
to  ask  you  something.  What  have  you  —  what 
have  you  been  —  been  doing  to  Muriel?  What 
have  you  said  to  her  —  about  me,  and  about  — ?  " 

"  Oh,  hell,  John !  I'm  frozen,  I  can't  sit  jaw- 
ing here.  Start  the  boat  and  let  me  get  home  — 
or  let  me,  damn  you !  "  And  he  too  seized  the 
handle,  gripping  John's  hand;  and  they  sat  there, 
crouching  absurdly  over  the  back  of  the  seat, 
glowering  at  each  other  in  the  noisy  wind. 

And  John  nearly  gave  way;  he  felt  that  he  was 
being  unreasonable,  perhaps  foolish  —  this  was 
no  place  for  talk.  But  he  was  very  angry  and 
resentful  again,  and  he  said  he  would  be  firm 
for  once.  And  so  do  the  tragedies  of  life  have 
their  birth. 

[275] 


The  House  by  the  River 

He  shouted,  "  We're  not  going  back  till  you've 
told  me  the  truth  —  you've  been  telling  lies  to 
Muriel  —  you've  made  love  to  her.  God  knows 
what  you've  done  —  and  you've  got  to  tell  me 
—  now! " 

"  Will  you  let  go  of  this  handle,  damn  you  ? 
It's  my  boat!  " 

John  held  on.  Then  Stephen  gave  a  great 
heave  with  his  body,  so  that  John  nearly  went 
overboard ;  but  his  grip  held  firm.  So  they  fought 
with  their  bodies  for  a  minute,  heaving  and  pant- 
ing and  muttering  low  curses,  and  clutching 
still  the  disputed  handle.  The  boat  rocked  dan- 
gerously, and  the  forgotten  dinghy  drifted  away. 
They  were  beyond  the  houses  now,  and  beyond 
the  brewery,  moving  slowly  past  the  flat  and  deso- 
late meadows.  There  was  no  one  to  see  them. 
But  no  one  could  have  seen  them.  The  rain  was 
coming  and  it  was  really  dark  now;  a  huge  black 
cloud  had  rolled  up  out  of  the  west  and  blotted 
out  the  last  stars.  John  looked  once  towards  the 
meadows,  but  he  could  not  see  the  bank  —  only 
an  endless  flickering  blackness.  They  were  alone 
out  there  in  the  howling  dark,  and  they  knew  that 
they  were  alone.  And  at  last,  when  nothing 
came  of  this  insane  struggle,  Stephen  suddenly 
took  his  hand  from  the  handle  and  struck  John 
a  fierce  blow  on  the  side  of  the  head;  and  John 
staggered,  but  gripped  him  immediately  by  the 
[276] 


The  House  by  the  River 

throat  with  his  left  hand,  clinging  still  to  the  han- 
dle with  his  right.  So  they  sat  for  a  moment, 
Stephen  clutching  at  the  hand  at  his  throat,  and 
black  hatred  in  the  hearts  of  both  of  them,  and 
their  eyes  fixed  in  a  staring  fury.  Stephen  was 
the  stronger  man,  and  with  a  supreme  effort  he 
tore  away  the  hand  from  his  throat.  He  dived 
forward  over  the  thwart  and  seized  one  of  the 
oars.  Then  he  turned  to  attack,  standing  up  in  a 
crouching  posture.  But  John  Egerton  had  seen 
red  at  last,  and  he  dimly  knew  that  Stephen  was 
yet  more  mad  wtth  fury  than  himself.  He  had  no 
weapon  except  the  starting-handle  in  his  hand,  but 
as  Stephen  turned,  he  whipped  this  from  its  place 
and  sprang  forward;  he  struck  out  fiercely  with 
the  iron  handle.  Stephen  lifted  his  oar  to  guard 
himself,  and  the  handle  struck  it  with  great  force, 
with  a  heavy  thud  upon  the  wood.  Stephen 
swayed  a  little,  but  he  was  unhurt,  and  the  handle 
fell  from  John's  hands  into  the  boat.  Then 
Stephen  lifted  his  oar  again  and  swung  it  in  a  wide 
circle,  like  a  great  sword,  a  vicious,  terrible  blow. 
But  John  ducked,  and  it  swept  over  his  head. 
And  while  Stephen  was  yet  recovering  himself,  he 
sprang  up,  and  he  sprang  at  Stephen,  and  he 
lunged  at  him  with  his  fist.  John  Egerton  was  no 
boxer,  but  fate  was  with  him  in  that  fight,  and 
all  the  hoarded  resentment  of  the  summer  was 
behind  that  blow.  It  caught  Stephen  on  the  jaw 

[277] 


The  House  by  the  River 

as  he  raised  his  head.  It  caught  him  on  the  point 
of  the  jaw  with  the  uncanny  completeness  of  pre- 
cision and  force  which  no  man  can  endure  who  is 
struck  in  that  place.  His  head  went  up,  and  the 
oar  dropped  from  his  hands.  For  a  moment  he 
tottered,  and  then  he  fell,  without  a  word,  without 
a  cry,  forward  and  sideways,  into  the  water.  And 
John  himself  fell  forward  over  the  thwart,  and 
lay  panting  in  the  rolling  boat.  When  he  looked 
out  at  last,  he  could  see  nothing,  nothing  but  the 
empty  water,  and  the  empty  meadows,  and,  far 
off,  the  lights  of  Barnes. 

He  searched  the  water  for  a  long  time,  and 
after  a  little  he  found  the  oar,  which  Stephen  had 
dropped;  but  he  found  nothing  else.  And  at 
last  he  was  sure  that  Stephen  was  dead.  He  went 
home  slowly  against  the  tide;  and  Margery  was 
waiting  in  the  garden,  looking  out  into  the  wind. 
He  told  her  simply  that  he  could  not  find  Stephen; 
and  this  time  he  lied  easily. 

That  night  she  did  not  show  him  the  paper 
which  she  had  found  in  the  dining-room.  But  in 
the  morning  she  gave  it  to  him,  and  John  tore  it 
carefully  into  small  pieces  and  threw  them  on  the 
fire.  And  this  he  did  without  the  sense  or  the  cir- 
cumstance of  drama.  For  John  Egerton  was  no 
artist.  But  he  was  a  good  man. 

[278] 


XVIII 

SO  died  Stephen  Byrne.  And  the  world 
talked  for  many  days  of  the  tragic  acci- 
dent of  his  drowning,  of  the  tragic  failure 
of  his  friend  to  find  him,  under  the  eyes  of  his 
wife,  under  the  windows  of  his  home.  But  the 
people  of  The  Chase,  at  least,  were  not  surprised; 
they  had  always  said,  they  discovered,  that  he 
would  overdo  it  at  last  .  .  .  pottering  about  on 
the  river  at  all  hours  of  the  night.  They  found 
the  body,  by  a  strange  chance,  among  the  thick 
weeds  and  rushes  round  the  Island,  about  the 
place  where  Stephen  had  hunted  for  firewood 
on  the  last  day.  It  had  come  down  with  the  tide, 
and  had  been  blown  into  the  weeds,  as  the  drift- 
wood was  blown.  But  the  world  did  not  know 
this,  and  they  said  it  was  the  weeds  which  had 
pulled  him  down  at  last  to  his  death. 

Three  weeks  later  the  Stephen  Byrne  Memorial 
Committee  met  for  the  first  time.  It  was  a  truly 
representative  body.  Lord  Milroy  was,  of 
course,  in  the  chair,  because  he  and  Stephen  were 
Old  Boys  of  the  same  Foundation,  and  because 
he  was  always  in  the  chair.  John  Egerton  was  a 
member  because  Margery  insisted;  and  Dimple, 
Whittaker,  and  Stimpson  represented  The  Chase 

[279] 


The  House  by  the  River 

with  him.  Indeed,  the  whole  affair  had  its  or- 
igin in  The  Chase.  It  was  clear  of  course  from 
the  beginning  that  there  would  be  a  memorial 
somewhere,  whether  it  was  at  Stephen's  school 
or  his  birthplace;  or  it  might  even  be  a  national 
memorial.  But  before  any  one  else  had  made  a 
move  the  people  of  The  Chase  put  their  heads  to- 
gether and  decided  that  it  should  be  a  Chase 
memorial,  run  by  The  Chase,  and  erected  in  or 
about  The  Chase.  Further,  in  order  to  ensure 
that  The  Chase  memorial  should  be  the  memorial, 
they  astutely  invited  all  possible  competitive 
bodies  to  send  representatives  to  sit  on  The 
Stephen  Byrne  Memorial  Committee.  All  these 
bodies  fell  into  the  trap.  The  Old  Savonians 
sent  two  representatives,  and  the  village  of 
Monckton  Parva  another;  and  a  man  came  from 
the  Home  Office  and  another  from  the  Authors' 
Society,  and  others  from  various  literary  bodies. 
They  met  at  the  Whittakers',  and  Lord  Milroy 
presided.  Lord  Milroy  was  one  of  those  useful 
and  assiduous  noblemen  who  live  in  a  constant 
state  of  being  in  the  chair.  One  felt  that  at  the 
Last  Day  he  would  probably  be  found  in  the  chair, 
gravely  deprecating  the  tone  of  the  last  speaker 
and  taking  it  that  the  sense  of  the  Committee 
was  rather  in  favour  of  the  course  which  com- 
mended itself  to  him.  For  although  he  was  cour- 
teous and  statesmanlike  and  suave,  he  was  passion- 
[280] 


The  House  by  the  River 

ately  attached  to  his  own  opinions,  and  generally 
saw  to  it  that  they  prevailed. 

On  the  matter  of  this  memorial  he  speedily 
formed  an  opinion.  There  were  many  alterna- 
tive proposals  —  some  of  them  attractive,  but 
expensive  or  impracticable,  some  of  them  merely 
fantastic.  One  man  took  the  view  that  the  work 
and  character  of  Stephen  Byrne  would  be  most 
suitably  commemorated  by  the  endowment  of  a 
school  of  poetry  in  Northern  Australia,  where  the 
arts  were  notoriously  neglected.  The  school,  of 
course,  would  bear  the  name  of  Stephen  Byrne, 
and  this  would  be  a  perpetual  link  between  Aus- 
tralia and  the  mother  country.  The  Old  Savon- 
ians  pointed  out  to  the  Committee  that  the  gym- 
nasium at  Savonage,  where  Stephen  Byrne  had 
spent  perhaps  the  happiest  years  of  his  life,  must 
somehow  be  enlarged  —  if  it  was  to  keep  pace 
with  the  expansion  of  the  school.  And  the  spirit 
of  the  founder's  motto,  "  Mens  sana  in  corpore 
sano,"  could  hardly  be  so  perfectly  expressed  as 
by  the  commemoration  of  a  fine  mind  in  the  build- 
ing up  of  fine  bodies.  Besides,  there  was  no 
prospect  otherwise  of  getting  the  gymnasium  en- 
larged. The  representatives  of  Monckton  Parva 
were  more  ambitious.  They  said  that  the  place 
where  a  man  was  born  and  the  place  where  a  man 
lived  afterwards  were  the  two  great  geographical 
monuments  of  his  life.  Since  the  Committee  did 

[281] 


The  House  by  the  River 

not  see  their  way  to  arrange  for  a  memorial  in 
each  of  these  places,  why  not  somehow  unite 
them?  The  house  where  Stephen  was  born  was 
now  unhappily  situated  between  a  brewery  and  a 
tannery;  and  unless  sufficient  funds  were  subscribed 
to  provide  for  the  total  destruction  of  the  brew- 
ery and  the  tannery,  the  house  as  it  stood  could 
scarcely  be  regarded  as  a  suitable  nucleus  for  the 
memorial.  They  therefore  suggested  that  the 
house  should  be  demolished  or  rather  disinte- 
grated, brick  by  brick,  and  re-erected  in  a  suitable 
site  in  Hammerton  Chase  as  near  as  possible  to 
Stephen's  house.  The  house  was  small  and  com- 
paratively mobile;  indeed,  there  was  a  legend  in 
the  township  that  the  house  had  been  transplanted 
once,  if  not  twice,  already.  Alternatively  both 
the  house  at  Monckton  and  the  house  at  The 
Chase  might  be  razed  to  the  ground  and  re-erected 
as  one  building  on  a  neutral  site  in  Kensington, 
or  perhaps  Lincolnshire,  a  county  which  Stephen 
had  mentioned  very  favourably  in  one  of  his 
poems. 

Mr.  Dimple,  who  had  been  got  at  by  the 
church,  strongly  advocated  the  claims  of  the  Mon- 
tobel  Day  Nursery;  Stephen,  he  said,  had  had 
two  children  himself,  and  if  he  had  been  able  to 
give  an  opinion,  would  almost  certainly  have 
elected  to  be  commemorated  by  a  gift  to  the  little 
ones  of  the  neighbourhood. 

[282] 


The  House  by  the  River 

No  one  thought  much  of  any  of  these  sugges- 
tions; and  after  a  great  deal  of  bland  and  sugary 
argument  the  field  of  alternatives  was  thinned 
down  for  practical  purposes  to  two  —  Mr. 
Stimpson's  plan  and  Mr.  Meredith's  plan.  Mr. 
Meredith  was  the  Home  Office  man.  He  had 
vacillated  for  a  while  between  a  Stephen  Byrne 
monolith  at  Hammersmith  Broadway  and  a 
Stephen  Byrne  Scholarship  at  London  University, 
the  balance  of  the  fund  to  be  devoted  to  the  pro- 
vision of  a  mural  tablet  in  Hammerton  church, 
setting  out  the  principal  works  of  Stephen  Byrne, 
a  kind  of  monumental  bibliography.  Finally, 
however,  he  decided  in  favour  of  the  Hammer- 
smith Broadway  scheme.  At  that  time  there  was 
much  excitement  in  the  Press  over  the  conduct  of 
foot  passengers  in  the  London  streets,  who  were 
said  to  show  an  extraordinary  carelessness  of  life 
in  the  face  of  the  rapid  increase  of  motor  trans- 
port. For  example,  they  took  no  notice  of 
"  refuges  " ;  they  crossed  the  street  at  any  old 
point.  And  Meredith's  theory  —  which  was  also 
apparently  the  official  theory  of  the  Home  Secre- 
tary, if  not  actually  of  the  Home  Secretary's  pri- 
vate secretary  —  was  that  people  neglected  the 
refuges  because  they  were  such  dull  places.  An 
unbeautiful  lamp-post,  he  said,  sprouting  unnatu- 
rally from  a  small  island  of  pavement,  held  out 
no  inducement  to  pedestrians.  It  simply  did  not 

[283] 


The  House  by  the  River 

attract  their  attention,  so  they  did  not  go  there. 
Now,  if  they  were  made  attractive,  if  every  refuge 
at  the  principal  crossings  and  danger-points  were 
made  into  a  thing  of  intrinsic  beauty  or  interest, 
the  people  would  crowd  to  them,  to  look  at  the 
statue,  or  read  the  inscription,  or  drink  at  the 
fountain,  or  whatever  it  was.  And  he  proposed 
that  the  first  experiment  should  be  made  with 
a  Stephen  Byrne  memorial  at  Hammersmith 
Broadway,  which  was  very  dangerous  and  had 
nothing  striking  in  the  centre  of  it.  He  said  it 
was  a  curious  thing  that,  if  you  counted  the  people 
who  used  the  Piccadilly  Circus  refuge  or  the  King 
Charles  refuge  in  one  day,  you  would  find  the  num- 
ber was  "  out  of  all  proportion  "  to  the  number  of 
people  who  used  an  ordinary  refuge  where  there 
was  no  fountain  and  no  flower-girls  and  no  statue 
of  King  Charles.  Nobody  could  remember  doing 
this,  and  very  few  of  the  Committee  were  pre- 
pared to  take  his  word  for  it.  In  fact,  Stimpson 
said  that  what  Meredith  said  was  not  borne  out  by 
his  own  experience  (and  this  was  as  near  as  the 
Committee  ever  approached  to  open  incredulity 
or  contradiction) ;  he  also  said  that  you  do  not 
want  crowds  gathering -round  refuges  and  gaping 
at  pieces  of  sculpture;  but  then  Stimpson  was 
prejudiced,  for  Stimpson  had  his  own  plan. 

And  Lord  Milroy  came  down  heavily  in  favour 
of  Stimpson's  plan.  He  distrusted  the  Bureau- 
[284] 


The  House  by  the  River 

cracy  on  principle  and  he  disliked  Meredith  in 
particular.  And  he  was  not  fond  of  John  Eg- 
erton ;  John  was  another  Civil  Servant,  and  there- 
fore a  Bureaucrat,  and  John  was  the  only  mem- 
ber other  than  Meredith  who  was  hotly  opposed 
to  Stimpson's  plan.  So  that  for.  a  man  less  free 
from  prejudice  than  the  chairman  there  would 
have  been  a  good  deal  of  prejudice  in  favour  of 
Stimpson's  plan  as  against  Meredith's  plan. 

And  there  was  much  to  be  said  for  Stimpson's 
plan.  It  had  a  certain  imaginative  boldness,  and 
just  that  touch  of  sentiment  which  a  memorial 
demands;  and  it  was  simple.  He  said  that  the 
great  thing  geographically  in  Stephen  Byrne's  life 
at  Hammerton  Chase  was  the  river.  He  had 
loved  the  river;  not  Hammerton  nor  even  The 
Chase,  but  the  river.  And  any  memorial  that 
was  made  to  him  in  Hammerton  should  be  some- 
how expressive  of  this.  There  was  only  one 
place  where  such  a  memorial  could  conveniently 
be  made;  and  that  place  was  the  Island,  the  wild 
untenanted  Island,  the  Island  where  he  had  died. 
At  the  eastern  end  of  the  Island,  in  sight  of  his 
own  home,  should  his  monument  be  put  —  a  sim- 
ple figure  in  some  grey  stone,  sitting  there  in  his 
favourite  posture  under  the  single  willow-tree, 
with  his  knees  drawn  up  and  the  head  thrown 
bacK,  and  looking  out  with  the  poetic  vision  over 
that  noble  sweep  of  the  wide  river,  at  the  gra- 

[285] 


The  House  by  the  River 

clous  trees  and  delicate  lights,  and  the  huddled 
houses  curving  away.  .  .  .  Stimpson  was  almost 
moving  as  he  developed  the  idea,  and  most  of  the 
Committee  were  captivated  at  once.  Lord  Mil- 
roy  said  that  he  knew  a  sculptor  who  was  the  very 
man  for  such  a  task.  He  specialized  in  river- 
work;  and  Lord  Milroy,  when  travelling  in  India, 
had  been  specially  struck  by  a  figure  he  had  seen  — 
by  a  figure  looking  over  the  Ganges,  which  was 
the  work  of  this  man.  He  also  said  that  he  was 
attracted  by  the  breadth  and  freshness  of  the 
scheme;  and  this  was  true. 

Only  John  Egerton  hotly  opposed  it.  The 
idea  of  a  stone  figure  of  Stephen  Byrne,  sitting 
for  ever  under  the  willow-tree  in  sight  of  his 
windows,  and  in  sight  of  Margery's  windows,  re- 
volted him.  But  he  could  think  of  no  convincing 
objections.  The  Island  was  often  submerged  at 
high  tide;  the  soil  was  sodden;  the  banks  crumbled 
away.  The  land  did  not  belong  to  Hammerton; 
nobody  knew  to  whom  it  did  belong,  perhaps  to 
the  Port  of  London  Authority,  perhaps  to  the 
Crown.  Anyhow,  it  would  take  a  long  time  to 
secure  authority.  And  so  on.  His  difficulties 
were  easily  dealt  with;  his  timid  suggestion  that 
Margery  might  not  like  it  was  scornfully  rejected; 
and  after  the  chairman's  summing-up,  delivered  in 
a  very  statesmanlike  manner,  the  Committee  by 
a  large  majority  adopted  the  plan. 
[286] 


The  House  by  the  River 

So,  after  many  months,  the  statue  was  put  up, 
and  reverently  unveiled.  It  was  a  noble  piece  of 
work.  The  figure  was  sitting  in  an  easy  posture 
on  the  thwart  of  a  boat,  and  this  rested  on  a  low, 
broad  pedestal  that  was  just  high  enough  to  keep 
the  figure  out  of  the  water  at  the  highest  tides, 
yet  so  low  that  you  did  not  notice  it.  You  looked 
over  and  saw  simply  the  slight  figure  of  a  young 
man  in  grey,  sitting  near  the  water  under  the  tree, 
his  hands  clasped  about  his  knees,  his  feet  crossed 
naturally,  and  his  head  thrown  back  a  little,  and 
his  lips  a  little  parted,  as  if  he  were  asking  some 
question  of  the  things  he  saw.  It  was  the  exact 
posture  of  Stephen  Byrne  in  that  place,  as  many 
remembered  it;  and  the  tone  and  colour  of  the 
figure  were  so  quiet  and  right  that  it  was  part  of 
the  scene,  part  of  the  river,  and  part  of  the 
Island,  as  it  was  meant  to  be.  And  on  the  ped- 
estal there  was  written,  simply: 

IN    MEMORY 
OF 

STEPHEN   BYRNE 

A    GREAT    POET 
HE    LOVED   THIS   PLACE 

The  unveiling  was  a  quaint,  unusual  ceremony. 
The  time  chosen  was  a  little  after  high  tide  on  a 
fortunate  afternoon  in  early  January,  when  the 
sun  shone  amazingly  in  a  clear  June  sky,  and  the 

[287] 


The  House  by  the  River 

windless  river  wore  its  most  delicate  blue.  There 
gathered  round  the  draped  figure  at  the  end  of 
the  Island  a  splendid  company  of  men  and  women. 
They  came  there  necessarily  in  numbers  of  small 
boats,  and  the  greater  part  of  them  remained  all 
the  time  in  these  boats.  They  hung  there  in  a 
dense  crowd,  clinging  to  ropes  made  fast  to  the 
Island.  Only  the  Committee  and  the  very  great 
men  stood  on  the  Island  by  the  tree.  All  those 
others,  great  and  small,  sat  absolutely  silent  in 
their  boats  for  many  minutes;  they  had  come  long 
journeys,  some  of  them,  to  see  this  thing,  and 
some  of  them  were  only  Saturday  holiday-makers, 
brought  there  by  curiosity  as  they  rowed  upstream; 
but  they  all  sat  silent.  And  as  the  hour  for  the 
unveiling  came  near,  the  tugs  and  the  barges  and 
the  small  boats  passing  by  stopped  their  engines 
or  laid  aside  their  sweeps  or  their  oars,  and  stood 
still  in  reverence;  and  the  river  stood  still,  for  it 
was  slack  water.  All  this  quietness  of  respect 
was  very  moving;  and  the  men  and  women  rowed 
back  afterwards  in  the  warm  sun,  feeling  that 
they  had  seen  a  fine  thing. 

It  was  marred  only  by  one  strange  note.  John 
Egerton  and  Margery  did  not  go  over  for  the  un- 
veiling; but  they  watched  together  from  Mar- 
gery's garden.  And  in  the  stillness  there  were 
many  there  who  heard  and  remembered  the  high 
cackle  of  hysterical  laughter  which  came  over 
[288] 


The  House  by  the  River 

the  water  when  the  figure  was  revealed.  It  was 
a  thin  and  horrible  laughter  that  had  no  mirth 
in  it,  only  a  fierce  and  bitter  derision.  It  went  on 
for  a  full  half-minute  and  faded  away  to  a  faint 
sound,  as  if  the  man  laughing  had  gone  suddenly 
into  a  house. 

Muriel  Tarrant  heard  it,  for  she  was  there  with 
her  mother,  not  in  black,  as  were  many  of  The 
Chase,  but  darkly  dressed.  When  she  heard  that 
laughter  she  looked  back  quickly  over  her  shoul- 
der; and  when  she  turned  her  head  to  the  statue 
again,  her  face  was  very  white. 

Very  soon  the  figure  became  a  landmark  to 
those  who  used  the  river.  It  became  a  mark 
among  the  watermen  and  bargees  and  the  cap- 
tains of  tugs.  And  people  made  pilgrimages  in 
small  boats  on  the  warm  winter  days  to  look  at 
it  and  read  the  inscription. 

Margery  Byrne  lived  on  in  her  house,  and  John 
Egerton  lived  on  next  to  her  in  his.  But  why 
they  stayed  in  that  place  it  is  hard  to  say.  For 
you  would  think  it  was  a  cruel  fate  which  set  up 
at  their  own  doors  the  graven  image  of  their  old 
idol ;  you  would  have  said  it  was  a  hard  thing  to 
look  out  of  the  window  at  any  hour  of  the  day 
and  see  always  some  pilgrim  at  the  shrine,  doing 
his  silent  homage  to  the  idol  —  gazing  up  from  a 
boat  or  standing  on  the  Island  with  his  head  bared 
—  knowing  nothing,  suspecting  nothing.  And 

[289] 


The  House  by  the  River 

sometimes,  indeed  —  they  confessed  to  each  other 
—  they  wanted  to  rush  out  to  the  river-side,  and 
shout  over  the  water  at  these  worshippers  the 
secret  history  of  that  splendid  figure. 

Yet  it  fascinated  them.  And  it  may  be  that,  in 
spite  of  all,  they  were  proud  of  it;  they  were 
proud  in  secret  of  the  pilgrims  and  the  homage 
and  the  Sunday  crowds.  It  is  certain  at  least  that 
they  never  went  to  their  beds  —  and  this  also  they 
confessed  to  each  other  —  they  never  went  to 
their  beds  or  threw  up  a  window  in  the  morning 
to  bathe  in  the  sun  without  turning  their  eyes 
up  the  river  to  the  end  of  the  Island,  to  the 
seated  figure  under  the  tree.  On  a  dark  night 
it  was  difficult  to  see,  but  on  a  moonlit  night 
they  could  see  it  very  clearly.  And  they  looked 
at  it  always.  The  idol  had  something  still  of 
the  old  magic,  though  they  knew  that  the  feet 
of  it  were  clay.  But  on  the  wild  sou'wester  nights 
they  looked  out  very  quickly  and  drew  close  the 
blinds.  And  on  those  nights  they  were  always 
sad. 

But  the  statue  stood  there  for  three  months 
only.  In  April  there  was  a  great  storm  and  a 
great  tide.  The  wind  and  the  rain  came  vio- 
lently out  of  the  south-west  and  beat  upon  the 
statue;  and  the  swollen  tide  rushed  up  over  the 
Island,  and  over  the  road,  and  over  the  little  gar- 
dens of  The  Chase ;  it  surged  up  about  the  knees 
[290] 


The  House  by  the  River 

of  the  statue,  and  tugged  and  fretted  at  the  crumb- 
ling banks.  At  dusk  the  tide  was  not  full,  but 
already  the  short  waves  were  slapping  the  face  of 
the  statue,  and  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  under 
the  willow-tree  but  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a 
man  struggling  in  the  furious  race  of  the  flood. 
In  the  morning  it  was  seen  that  the  bank  and 
the  new  stone  facing  of  the  bank  had  collapsed; 
and  at  low  tide  the  statue  was  found  grovelling  in 
the  mud,  with  its  nose  shattered.  The  willow  is 
very  near  to  the  edge  of  the  Island  now,  and  it  is 
strange  that  it  survived  that  tide.  There  is  noth- 
ing under  it  now  but  a  small  patch  of  rich  green 
grass,  very  noticeable  from  the  windows  of  the 
Terrace.  This  grass  is  a  favourite  haunt  of  the 
Island  swans;  and  they  stand  there  for  hours, 
cleaning  themselves. 

So  for  the  first  time  the  true  story  of  Stephen 
Byrne  is  told;  and  those  at  least  who  live  in  The 
Chase  will  know  the  real  name  of  Stephen  Byrne, 
and  the  real  name  of  Hammerton  Chase.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  that  they  will  be  kinder  now  to  John 
Egerton,  and  as  kind  as  they  can  be  to  the  memory 
of  Stephen  Byrne.  For  there  is  something  to  be 
said  for  every  man;  and  Stephen  Byrne  was  a 
strange  mixture. 

As  for  the  rest,  the  pilgrims  and  the  far  wor- 
shippers, they  may  understand  the  story  or  they 
may  not;  and  it  can  be  no  great  matter  to  them. 

[291] 


The  House  by  the  River 

For  they  never  knew  Stephen  Byrne  in  the  flesh; 
and  they  have  his  poetry  as  they  had  it  before. 
And  when  the  statue  is  put  back  securely  in  its 
place,  no  doubt  they  will  come  to  see  it  again. 
For,  after  all,  the  inscription  said  that  he  was  a 
great  poet;  it  did  not  say  that  he  was  a  good 
man. 


THE  END 


[292] 


A    000139134     1 


p 


